Judge Dredd: The Cursed Earth
by Darth Gilthoron
Summary: Loosely based on the story line of the same name from the comics. When a plague breaks out in Mega-City 2, Dredd and a small team are sent across the dangerous wasteland known as the Cursed Earth to deliver the needed antidote. Anderson is proud to have his back, of course, but at the same time she has a mission of her own that soon lands her in a personal dilemma.
1. Fargo Stock

_**Author's Note:**__  
This story is based on the 2012 movie as well as the comics (storyline "The Cursed Earth", 2000AD progs 61-85, 1978; reprinted in Judge Dredd: The Complete Case Files, vol. 2), though of course it is not simply a merging of those two sources. Many of the characters appearing here are from the comics, in some way or another, some are my own. It occurred to me that the storyline might work well adapted as a TV series... and then suddenly I couldn't resist writing such an adapted version. You know how it is, don't you? ;-)_

_Reviews are appreciated, they speed up my writing massively. :D_

* * *

**1. Fargo Stock**

The landscape blurred from sharp lines into a sickening hue of beige and ochre streaked with grey. The roar of the engines was the only sound in an empty wasteland that stretched as far as the eye could see, flat and dry, the ground cracked and parched like broken plaster. Toward a sky of bright, dazzling blue, the occasional blackened ruin reared up, many more buried beneath the sand or ground to dust by the storms in the course of time.

The two men on their bikes had very little time to take in their surroundings.

Briefly throttling the engine, Dredd swerved around a scorched boulder looming out of the sand. What seemed to be part of an empty window frame cracked under the wheels as he accelerated once more. He was gaining on the man ahead. The Lawmaster might be a heavy bike, much heavier than the other man's, but underestimating its speed had proved a lethal mistake plenty of times in the past already. By now he was in sure firing range, yet a fall at this speed might well be deadly, and he wanted the man alive. Eyes on the ground ahead, he pushed the engine to maximum speed. One tiny mistake could kill him now, just one… but he made no mistakes.

The man ahead cast a glance over his shoulder, a risky move at this speed. But Harvey Rutten, better known as Spikes Rotten, had an infamous habit of taking much greater risks. Four times already he had escaped justice, and each time the escape had been spectacular. He would not escape again.

Spikes must have realised this as well. Very suddenly he turned left past a bristly thicket that could have been either alive or dead, skidding in the sand, but he caught himself just in time. Gritting his teeth, Dredd copied the move straight away, attempting to gain more ground by cutting the curve and very narrowly avoiding a slender finger of solid rock slanting from the sand in a slight angle. His hind wheel tore a thorny branch from the bristly thicket as he raced past it. Spikes was crouched on his bike, forcing it to its very limits, but Dredd was still gaining.

They were crossing what must have been a small settlement once, passing a pattern of scorched foundations. Crumbling walls rushed by to either side as they crossed the remains of a large building, and when they left its weak shadow heading out towards the open wasteland once more, Dredd was almost beside Spikes. Closing the gap between them, he forced him off course, towards a charred hill of unrecognisable debris. Spikes's features, or what was visible of them beneath his large black goggles, were twisted, his teeth slightly bared. A vein throbbed at the side of his neck, above the frayed collar of his jeans vest. He apparently was not wearing a shirt beneath it; Dredd could see the sinews in his arms twitching under his skin. Braking, he tried to slip past Dredd's hind wheel and away from the obstacle, yet Dredd had anticipated the move and braked along with him, steering his own bike yet closer. Yelling something that was swallowed completely by the rushing wind, Spikes dodged a bent and corroded piece of plumbing. He was careening to both sides already, losing control. Veering off course, he vainly tried to avoid a patch of gravel, skidding toward the debris. Dredd could only admire how he managed not to fall for so long. As he pulled his Lawmaster into a curve, he estimated speed and direction of his target, saw where the flight would end...

Somehow Spikes had not lost his precarious balance, but then hit a rock instead. He was thrown off the saddle into the air, flailing wildly, before he landed on the dusty ground, rolled several times and then lay still. The bike slithered away sideways, it wheels still turning, though one of them was twisted into an odd shape, sheets of dust rising up around it. Parts of metal fell off and exposed smoking engine components.

Muttering a curse, Dredd circled around and brought his Lawmaster to a stop. He leapt off and approached the fallen man warily. Spikes was lying flat on his stomach, face down in the sand, his bare arms covered in scratches and abrasions interspersed with larger bleeding gashes. The back of his jeans vest had a wide tear across it; blood was welling up from underneath. Dust coated his black-dyed hair, colouring it grey, yet somehow it more or less retained its style, the short spikes that had earned him his nickname.

As he had come as close as four or five paces, Spikes stirred and groaned audibly, and Dredd let go of a breath he had not quite realised he was holding. He was taking him alive after all.

Slowly, very slowly, Spikes rolled over and yanked his goggles off. Pushing himself up with one hand and groaning all the while – the other hand seemed to be injured – he gingerly examined a possibly deep cut across his bare stomach that was coated in a mixture of blood and dirt, then resignedly looked up at Dredd. "You fucking bastard. I applaud you."

Dredd answered with a mock inclination of his head, hinting at a bow. Spikes Rotten, another well-known name to add to the list of notorious lawbreakers he had brought down. He very much hoped that it would earn him a long night's sleep after a hot bath. Or a cold bath, maybe. The sun burned down remorselessly, and he was sweating under his uniform.

Spikes squinted at his badge, and his narrow face contorted into a grimace. "It's you, isn't it? Joe Dredd? Why, that's funny. Fancy that." He wiped the sweat from his forehead, smearing it with blood instead. "It's been a long time, Joey."

"Yes, it has," Dredd confirmed. "You're under arrest for theft, vandalism and several traffic violations. Three years, eligible for parole after two if you behave. Don't call me Joey."

Spikes shrugged and then immediately yelped and clutched his shoulder. "Not even for old times' sake? Nah, you're a big bad Judge now, aren't you?" He chuckled, a strangely throaty sound. "Aren't you gonna cuff me?"

"And you haven't changed one bit in all that time," Dredd remarked dryly. Gazing back in the direction he had come from, to the sheer boundary wall in the distance, towering blocks and structures rearing up above it barely discernible from where he stood, he did not have to wait long. A dark speck in the sky was coming towards them, growing bigger. "I'll leave the cuffing to them."

Spikes followed his gaze. "Here to pick us up, eh?" he observed. "Was wondering how you'd get me back, Judgey."

Dredd saw no need to reply to that comment. He watched the glider approach, all the while keeping half an eye on Spikes's slender frame. The man was examining his injuries again, muttering and from time to time hissing or groaning. Eventually they would be taken care of, of course, but not before he had been delivered to a secure facility.

When the glider landed, it was in a swirling dust cloud. Spikes covered his face with his arm, while Dredd simply lowered his head and held his breath for a moment. The ramp was lowered with the familiar hiss and whine of hydraulics, and out rushed two broad-shouldered men in the bland grey uniforms of the auxiliaries employed by the penitentiary system. Possibly failed Judges, both of them. Dredd gripped Spikes by the collar of his torn vest and hauled him up roughly, ignoring the captive's loud protests. One warden snatched him up and twisted his arms behind his back while the other patted him down quickly, producing a knife, but nothing more, as Dredd had expected, then they took one arm each and marched him up the ramp. There was no need to instruct them about further searching and securing the man, they both looked like they had spent more years serving the Hall of Justice than he had, having performed countless arrests in their time. Not a particularly tall man, Spikes looked small and skinny between his much bulkier guards. Mildly amused, Dredd turned away to get his bike. On his way, he contacted control to report he had apprehended his target. He felt rather smug.

The pilot appeared at the top of the ramp as he slowly rode up into the glider's cargo hold, a short, dark-skinned man with thinning black hair and a nose that was a bit too long for his face. "Welcome on board," he said cheerfully.

"Camarra." Dredd greeted him with a nod. The man might not look like much, but he was said to be one of the best pilots in the corps. He, too, had originally aimed to be a Judge, apparently, but failed his final exam. Climbing off his bike, Dredd secured it against the hull. The ramp was closing, allowing him one last glance at Spikes's abandoned bike, the wheels still spinning gently. There was no point in taking it along, it had not looked particularly good before and probably was little better than scrap metal by now, anyway. The goggles lay in the sand beside it; Spikes was not going to need them for a long time.

He followed the pilot forward into the cockpit, where the co-pilot, a bony blond woman Dredd had never seen before, was already preparing for lift-off. Spikes had been firmly strapped into one of the seats and was still complaining, with the wardens sitting behind him. That left only one free, the one next to Spikes. Dredd sat down and fastened his seatbelt, and as soon as the buckle clicked, the glider was climbing back into the hazy desert air already.

"Red sends his regards," Camarra said once they were off the ground.

Dredd allowed himself the luxury of briefly taking off his helmet to brush his sweaty hair away from his forehead. The air in the cockpit was stuffy and smelled of kerosene and new plastic seat covers, but it still felt refreshing. "He's back after all, then? I was wondering where he was when he didn't respond earlier on. Figured he wasn't back yet. He was supposed to be on duty."

"That he was," Camarra agreed, never taking his eyes off the consoles, "but they placed him under quarantine. I went to visit when I heard, but they called me away to take his shift, so all I know is…" He hesitated, clearly he did not know very much. "There's been an outbreak of some plague in Mega-City Two. Something that turns people into raving lunatics. Pretty bad."

For a moment everyone was quiet, contemplating this, wondering. The gentle drone of the glider's engine was the only sound in the cockpit. Then Spikes's cackling laughter broke the silence. "Zombie virus, eh? Like in the movies?" He rolled his eyes up into his head and hissed, "Brainssssss…" One of the wardens rapped the back of his head with his knuckles, and he gave a yelp and grumbled about mistreating prisoners.

"Like I said, I don't know much," Camarra continued, ignoring the interruption. "But the line's down at the moment. No way in and out of the city. Sounds a lot like back in the Germ War." The boundary wall filled the viewport, a hulking moloch of concrete and steel. Camarra pulled up, already heading for the incoming express route. "Let's hope it won't bother any of us, eh?"

"Not me, anyway," Dredd stated. "I come off in half an hour." After a thirty-six-hour shift. Bath, and then bed. It would be a blessing.

"Lucky bastard," Camarra grumbled, then laughed out loud. "Wouldn't be your problem even if you didn't. Nothing to concern a street Judge."

"Let the Council worry about it," Dredd agreed. And no way in hell would he ever be anything but a street Judge. In the day-to-day struggle with a society devouring itself, life was so much more simple than on the Council's murky heights.

"You're tense enough as it is, my boy," Spikes put in with a sneer. "You know what you really need? A nice long vacation. Ever had one? Yeah, thought so. I'll explain it to you, it means –"

"Shut it, perp, or I'll knock your teeth out," Dredd growled.

Spikes put on an expression of mock dismay. "_Perp_, is it, now? That's rude. You might at least..." As Dredd slowly raised a fist, he faltered and closed his mouth quickly.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. Dredd watched the plumes of smoke rising over the structures to the east; they told him the riots were not over yet. Unless something decisive was done, and soon, this threatened to turn into a fully blown civil war. Nobody said anything, but from the drawn faces around him, most seemed to be thinking the same. Even Spikes was unusually quiet.

Soon Camarra put the glider down on the main landing pad of the Hall of Justice. According to Mega-City One's procedural law, any prisoner apprehended outside the city walls was the responsibility of Sector 1 and therefore to be delivered to the Hall of Justice directly, no matter which sector the Judge performing the arrest was assigned to. Dredd curtly said his good-byes and headed off towards the vehicle elevator with his bike. He had quite a distance to travel back to his own sector, and then to write a quick report before he turned in.

"You know what, Judgey?" Spikes called after him. "Do yourself a favour and get laid some time. It might really – OW!"

* * *

Returning to the Academy made Cassandra Anderson mildly uneasy, especially when summoned by the Chief Judge. Was she to take her exams again? Or take additional classes, and apply herself harder? She had applied herself as hard as she could once already, but it had been no use. She still had failed.

Yet despite that, she had earned her badge. She was a Judge. No, she would not be sent back to the Academy!

It helped that she did not have to go there alone, though.

Her very first duty shift as a Judge had started out quite marvellously. Not yet assigned to any sector house, she had been handed over to a Senior Judge at the Hall of Justice itself, a somewhat cool-mannered, though not unfriendly man by the name of Gibson, who, as it turned out when he took off his helmet, was not only tall and athletic, but also blond and rather strikingly handsome like a Norse hero from the tales she dimly remembered from her childhood. At the last minute they were joined by a slim, rather small woman who introduced herself as Barbara Hershey. She and Gibson seemed to know each other very well, merry banter flying back and forth between them, but especially Hershey did her best not to make Anderson feel excluded. Together they broke up a large-scale bar fight, destroyed a narcotics manufacturing lab hidden in the basement of a clothing store catering to the rich and decadent, stopped a burglary and dealt with several traffic violations. Anderson performed three arrests herself, but no executions this time, thankfully; killing was something she did not like at all, though she knew now that she would not hesitate if it became necessary. Eventually she would be sent out on her own, of course, but for now she was glad for the company.

There even was time for a little talk while Gibson handled an affair of illegal tuning, along with a man Hershey had called in from Tek Division. It turned out that Hershey – and Gibson, as it happened – had not only been cadets with Dredd, but also that Hershey only spent part of her duty shifts in Sector 1; she and Dredd belonged to the same sector and even shared an office at Sector House 13. Not that he used it much, according to Hershey; if he came in at all, he apparently in all haste typed a report that was as short as legally possible and then left again, or, as Hershey claimed, he tried to dump his paperwork on someone else. Anderson laughed in disbelief at that.

But additional paperwork or not, she would very much have liked to share an office with Dredd.

When she and Hershey were recalled to the Hall of Justice, Anderson felt a little disappointed. Gibson laughed and suggested she might have been singled out to be, as he called it, "groomed for command" like Hershey, but Anderson decidedly shook her head. It might have to do with her status as a mutant, but she did not want to say that out loud. Hershey had seemingly dropped a hint at it once, so she might know about her, but Gibson did not, and she feared that his opinion of mutants was less than favourable. He had taken off his helmet, and she was glad that she was wearing hers for once, because she could feel her cheeks grow hot under it as he smiled down at her, despite his sweaty face and hair. Would he still smile if he knew what she was?

Silly girl, she told herself angrily as Hershey headed out of the maze of streets to the highway, leading the way back to the Hall of Justice. You're both Judges. Dating is for civilians.

And you might stop dreaming about getting teamed up with Dredd as well. He wouldn't appreciate it if you tagged behind him like a puppy, staring at him in wide-eyed admiration while he performed his duty. He probably has little patience for a newly-made Judge's hero-worship. He was far from happy when he was named your assessment officer, too, after all. He's glad to be rid of you. So be grateful you got Hershey, she's a great Judge, too, and really nice. Ask her if she'll take you on for the week, how about that? Because Dredd certainly won't.

And if Hershey were to oversee her first week, they would most likely spend considerable time in Sector 13, where Dredd was. Maybe she could at least see him. If she was lucky.

They parked their bikes in the huge vehicle garage deep in the Hall of Justice's bowels and headed for the correct elevator, Anderson growing more nervous by the minute. Luckily Hershey was to see the Chief Judge too and therefore stay with her... or was she just there for another assessment?

If so, Anderson tried to calm herself, you have nothing to fear, you did fine today. If she had found anything wrong with what you did, she would have told you so. Anderson felt tempted to take a look into Hershey's mind, but hesitated. What if her probing was detectable for others? It was a question that had bothered her for some time, but since she had always kept her ability a secret from her fellow cadets, she had never yet had a chance to experiment. What if the other Judge somehow felt her mental touch? Hershey seemed to know about her, so she might come to the right conclusion. And if she was caught reading fellow Judges' minds, it would mean trouble for her, no doubt. This way, all she could pick up was what emotions Hershey clearly radiated.

"Nervous?" Hershey asked with a sympathetic little smile. She held her helmet under her arm; her tangled dark brown hair was about as long as Anderson's.

"A little," Anderson admitted. From what she felt beside her, Hershey certainly wasn't; had Anderson closed her eyes, she would have seen Hershey in her mind as an icy blue spot of calm. She wanted to ask her why they were summoned, but that might make her look too anxious and silly, and she did not want to spoil the impression she had made with the older Judge until now.

* * *

The girl did seem rather jumpy, Hershey thought to herself, especially when the Chief Judge awaited them at the entrance to the Academy's training simulation and gym facilities. There surely was no reason, she had done well enough today, and even Dredd seemed to have a fairly good opinion of her, which was saying something. But she was a new Judge, and new Judges tended to be overawed by any high-ranking officer and generally nervous at being summoned anywhere, so it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Chief Judge Goodman greeted them and even inquired after the girl's health. They had allowed her an entire week to recover from the injury she had suffered at Peach Trees. Dredd had been back on duty earlier on already, but not cleared for the street, which had resulted in a lot of grumbling and scowling at the office she shared with him and two others. When he had finally gotten permission to return to regular duty two days previously, she had been glad to see him go and unleash his foul mood on someone else, for a change. She was rather fond of the man, but there were certain limits to her patience. The whole Sector House had heaved a sigh of relief, probably.

"Hershey," the Chief Judge said, giving her the kind of smile a proud teacher might reserve for her favourite student, "why don't you accompany us while I set young Anderson here to her task? It won't take long."

Hershey nodded curtly and followed the other two women. Otherwise she would have suggested that she might run down to the locker room and change into her indoor uniform in the meantime. It was not mandatory to wear the traditional midnight blue when doing duty indoors, but it was more or less expected, especially if one intended to rise up the ranks eventually and performed aide functions part of the time, like she did. Dredd very pointedly ignored this half-official rule, always wearing his street gear inside. She wondered if his locker at the Sector House even held one of those uniforms, or if he had let the one issued to him disappear discreetly into a box of old computer parts at the very back of a maintenance closet or similar. She wouldn't put it past him. Sometimes he even walked into their office with his helmet still on – in contrast to Gibson, who took his helmet off on duty far too often, probably to spread the tan evenly on his pretty face. As much as she liked those two, they could be plain ridiculous at times.

They entered a narrow stairwell Hershey could not recall ever using before, and soon she found herself on a balcony overlooking one of the spacious gyms. Below them, cadets somewhere in their teenage years were exercising in their charcoal-coloured T-shirts and shorts, with instructors patrolling between them.

She would not have needed Chief Judge Goodman pointing out the boys in question; they had caught her attention straight away: a pair of twins, their dark hair cut very short like all the younger cadets wore it, one pummelling the practice mitts the other was holding for him with a zealous fierceness that was just as familiar to her as the boys' faces. "They're Fargo stock." It was not a question.

"They are," the Chief Judge confirmed, turning towards her briefly. "Andrin and Thiago Tobler. Fifteen years old. A pair of fine specimens, altogether, though the tampering has inadvertently made them smaller than they were supposed to be. Since it's the only ill effect that's been noticed, we've decided to live with it."

Hershey shrugged. "There are plenty of short Judges." She was not particularly tall herself, after all, and, to be honest, neither was Goodman. "What tampering, exactly?"

"Even if I knew any detail, I wouldn't be at liberty to say." Her tone was not exactly sharp, but close to it. "Anderson." The girl jumped to attention; her obvious eagerness brought a smile to Hershey's face. "The twins. Anderson, I would like you to assess them, read them, whatever you want to call it. But stay up here, do you hear? Don't make any contact. In the physical sense, that is; you get my meaning. Take your time, and report back to me afterwards."

Anderson nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir. Understood."

At a sharp command from Instructor Kelly, a lean, grey-haired man who had worked hard to make Hershey's life as well as that of many, many other cadets miserable in his time, the cadets changed their drill. Even after many years, Hershey was very close to jumping at his voice; he taught his students well, she had to give him that, yet wavering attention or repeated mistakes could make one's life very unpleasant indeed during his training lessons. From the way the boys and girls below her reacted, she did not need Anderson's convenient, though somewhat unsettling psychic ability to know that more than one lived in fear of the man.

"Good. I will see you in around half an hour, at my office." The Chief Judge motioned Hershey to follow her. Below, the other brother attacked the mitts with the same furious enthusiasm, egged on by his sweating, yet grinning twin. In their identical training clothes, they were impossible to tell apart. They might be smaller, yes, but otherwise... she could see them before her inner eye as if it had been yesterday, her friends, those other Fargo clones, having just as much fun as the boys below, moving just like them, even that manner of kicking they had shown on occasion, letting their legs snap forward from the knee downward. If one looked very, very closely, one might be able to spot tiny differences between these boys, but it would most likely take hours of study... unless...

A last glance over her shoulder showed Hershey the girl Anderson leaning on the balustrade, smiling to herself. It must feel good to someone as newly raised to the Judges' ranks as she was to be in the watcher's position, for a change. She seemed to be concentrating on the clone boys, seemingly having forgotten even about the Chief Judge. "They aren't simply slightly altered Fargo clones, are they?" she asked softly. Had there been any of those at all, since back then? "They were created to mirror the –"

The Chief Judge raised a slim dark hand pre-emptively without turning around as she walked down the stairs in a firm gait. "Not now."

Hershey bit her tongue, but the question bothered her very much. "Sir, just one thing, if I may," she finally tried as they stepped into an empty elevator. "Does one usually score higher than the other?"

Goodman raised her thin black eyebrows up towards her close-cropped black curls. Clearly she knew perfectly well where this was going; after all, she had taught Constitutional Law and Political Science in their earlier years, before she had been raised to the Council. "Thiago," she replied promptly.

Hershey sighed inaudibly. Another tragedy in the making? "You might want to keep a close eye on him."

The Chief Judge laughed mirthlessly. "Believe me, Hershey, we are doing just that. We _do_ remember Rico Dredd, after all." She paused, looking pensive. "I believe you were close to him?"

Hershey nodded sadly. "Yes, sir. I was."


	2. The Mission

**2. The Mission**

If Dredd had learned one thing very early on at the Academy of Law, it was how to go from fast asleep to wide awake within a fraction of a second. Yet even if he had not been fully awake by then, the order to come in to headquarters immediately would have made sure he was. One might occasionally be called to the Sector House, but to the Hall of Justice... that was rare. And it meant no good, most likely.

"Walter!" he bellowed in the direction of the kitchen as he went over to the cupboard to snatch up some clothing. "Coffee!"

A bleeping and whirring, then the familiar mechanical voice replied, "Yes, Judge Dwedd. Immediately."

Dredd rolled his eyes as he pulled on a plain grey T-shirt. Getting a domestic robot had seemed a good idea at the time; when the Justice Department had restocked on robots and offered the older models to its employees, he had taken one of them. It did the vacuum cleaning well enough, but apart from that, it was a rather pathetic thing. It still couldn't operate the dishwasher, it kept mixing up his socks and underwear in the cupboard, its cooking was quite horrible, and to top it off, it couldn't even say his name right. The letter R seemingly proved an insurmountable obstacle. And trying to get it to call him Joe instead had not worked either until now; he had not yet figured out where among the robot's settings he could change its master's name, and all his attempts to mute it completely had been equally unsuccessful. So he simply called it Walter the Wobot in return and bore the mangling of his name with as much stoic dignity as he could muster.

At least it was quick about its work. Just as he buttoned up his jeans, the robot rolled in with a cup extended in a spidery mechanical arm protruding from its cylindrical torso. The screen that topped it read COFFEE in large yellow letters, and as Dredd accepted the cup from it, it flashed DONE in green, then showed a beaming smiley face. Dredd growled under his breath. At least it made decent coffee.

Two minutes later, he already was on his way.

He had chosen Rowdy Yates block because it was within walking distance of Sector House 13. A fair number of Judges lived there for the same reason, which probably helped in making Rowdy Yates a decent neighbourhood to live in. The hallways were clean, the selection of restaurants, shops and entertainment facilities contained within the block numerous, the entrance court an actual park. Dredd liked the place, even though he spent considerable time away from it and mostly came there to sleep.

This time he had to travel a greater distance, though. He wondered whether he should change into his uniform at the Sector House and get his bike, but a glance at his watch told him that he could reach the cross-zone zoom if he sprinted all the way, which would mean he would arrive at the Hall of Justice a lot sooner. He hastily downed his coffee, then began his race against time. At first he feared he was going to be too late, but he managed to jump on board just in time, before the doors closed. Leaning against the wagon's metal side wall as the zoom raced across the sleeping city, he slowly regained his breath. He would have to report to McGruder's office in civilian clothes, but in ten minutes' time – just a little over twenty minutes after he had received the call. McGruder ought to be impressed. At Sector 1 Central he got off the zoom and chose the exit towards Justice Pedway. Three more minutes to go.

Halfway to his destination, his phone rang. He picked it up without breaking stride. "Hershey?"

"Called in too, eh?" she said. "I guess I'll see you in Rankin's office, then."

"Rankin?" he repeated. "No, I'm to report to McGruder. Give him my regards, though."

"No? Really?" She sounded surprised. "They call you in at the same time, and you're not to work with Riot Squad?"

"Well, if everybody gets sent to help out Riot Squad, someone has to do the usual street work," Dredd pointed out. "I'll probably have to jump sector for a couple of days."

"That doesn't explain why you have to go see McGruder."

She was perfectly right, he had to admit. "There must be more going on besides rioting, I guess. Any idea how bad it is?"

"Bad. Rumour has it they're ordering an air strike."

An air strike? Seriously? "Rumour? Who else have you been calling?"

"Nobody. I spoke to Finn Langley. You know, Rankin's aide. He hinted at it."

An air strike. Dredd did not envy her the duty shift she was facing. It must be the Block Wars from a decade ago all over again, at least in scale. "You always know the important people, eh?"

"Maybe you would, too," she teased, "if you didn't manage to piss them off five minutes into a conversation. As it happens, I'll be assuming command of part of the forces."

Lovely. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks, Joe. I think I'm gonna need it..."

* * *

Judge McGruder was a Council member, a veteran of many decades, a Judge who had managed to grow old on the job. Never seen in street gear anymore, she wore her grey hair in a firm bun at the back of her neck. She taught at the Academy, too; Dredd remembered her lectures – and tongue-lashings – only too well. She was a formidable woman, not a person one might easily forget.

As Dredd entered her office in his civilian garb – there was a first time for everything –, she cast a brief glance at his face, then looked at a sheaf of paper before her. "Joseph Dredd?"

"Yes, sir." Come on, you know me, even in this attire!

"I'm not going to beat around the bush, Dredd. With our current situation... You've been chosen to head a rather unusual project. You might call it a humanitarian mission."

"_What_?" He simply could not stop himself. "_Humanitarian_? I hear they're reinforcing Riot Squad, and I'm to play the goddamn good Samaritan? Sir, my skills are better suited to –"

"Are you Joseph," McGruder interrupted him sharply, getting up from her seat, "or are you Rico?"

"Sir," Dredd replied, scowling, "my brother is –"

"Currently doing time on Titan, I know," the Council member broke in coldly. "I was referring to your behaviour, man. Insubordination to a superior officer, is it? You know the regulations perfectly well, I presume."

Dredd clenched his teeth. "I formally apologise, sir." And of course you remember me. I knew it! But throwing _this_ in my face, just like that...

McGruder frowned at him. "You apologise, yes, but you're not sorry."

Dredd chose not to comment on that.

"Be that as it may," McGruder continued, walking around her desk to face him directly, "you've been chosen for a mission of utmost importance. Millions of lives may well depend on you. I hope you will prove the Council right, for putting such great trust in you." She cleared her throat, then continued, "There has been a massive viral outbreak in Mega-City Two. One might call it a plague. A mutated form of a bio-engineered atrocity left over from the Germ War. Those infected are driven into a wild, mindless rage. Even as we speak, Mega-City Two is slowly destroying itself, and as the virus spreads, the destruction grows. Our labs have just successfully produced a vaccine from a counter-agent we luckily still had on file. The trouble is how to get it there."

Dredd nodded; he knew part of the story so far. "I believe there's a pilot who's just been there, currently quarantined?"

McGruder's mouth narrowed. "There was. He's dead."

"Dead?" Dredd repeated. His old friend Red dead? He had meant to visit him the next day. Now he wished he had done it the evening before. If only he had known… There was a lump of lead in his chest. "How? Was he infected?"

McGruder nodded. "He suddenly went into a blind killing frenzy and smashed through the plastiscreen. Security had no other choice to stop the plague from spreading among us."

Dredd swallowed. Red had been a gentle soul, in his opinion, too gentle to work for the Hall of Justice. How cruelly ironic that he had died this way.

"Anyway," the Council member continued, "getting there will be hard. The main landing pads are in the infected area; that pilot barely escaped them on his way back. Or did not, as it turns out. We are not sure where else we can land. Communication has been mostly interrupted. Moreover, there are storms all over the Midland wasteland right now, storms that will suddenly spring up and develop into fully-fledged hurricanes in a matter of seconds. Flying is not safe right now. And if we go further south, there is a good chance our plane will be shot down by some mutant clan or another; I assume you are familiar with the problem." Dredd was not, at least not in any detail, but he still nodded. All he wanted to do was find out what was expected of him, find a way to refuse and then join Hershey on Riot Squad. "Further north, the radiation levels are too high still. Texas City lacks the knowledge and technology, and we can expect no help from Mex-City, as usual. Also, I believe they are at war with Texas again, though they try to deny it, of course." McGruder sniffed, a sound that doubtlessly still filled many a cadet with terror at her displeasure. "That leaves only the land route, across the Cursed Earth."

This was worse than he had expected. "The land route? You expect me to travel all the way across the Cursed Earth? You don't even know if there is an entrance to Mega-City Two that's not controlled by infested maniacs, do you? And it's gonna take me weeks to get there. By then, who knows what the situation is like? And you said it yourself, communications are mostly down. There's no way of finding out what's going on there until I've walked right into the middle of it. Send me on the Long Walk if you want to kill me, but not on this farce!"

McGruder's index finger stabbed into his chest sharply. "You are out of line, young man." If her tone had been cold before, it was icy now. "If not for your considerable merits and impeccable records, I'd have you transferred to Sector 301 straight away. Now, prick up your ears before you open your mouth to expose your inflated ego! There is one boundary entrance that _will_ be open, because the area has been strictly quarantined. No one gets in or out from the city side. And part of the way you _will_ be flown, as far as it is safe to fly. After that, you and your companions will be on their own, but equipped with the best of transportation and technology we can give you. Any more questions?" Like an afterthought, she added, "Oh, and I'm afraid you're considered too valuable to be killed off. Sometimes I almost find this a pity."

It was the first time for years that Dredd was at a loss for words. Never, he promised himself as he struggled to keep his face smooth, _never_ would he seek promotion into the administrative ranks like Hershey. If she wanted to put up with this, it was her own problem, but having to face the likes of McGruder all duty shift long, at least when not busy with paperwork, and constantly deferring to her... It probably summed up his ultimate nightmare, he concluded grimly. He was a street Judge – and a damn good one, at that! – and not some administrative lickspittle lackey!

"Now," McGruder said, her tone matter-of-fact as if she had not just delivered a fierce tongue-lashing, "if you will follow me, the briefing is about to start at Tek Division's experimental hangar. Afterwards you'll have a little time to get your things together. Weapons and provisions will be taken care of, of course. Oh, and wipe that sulky look off your face. Those are Judge Fargo's features. Treat them with a little more respect."

Any other part of venerable Fargo's anatomy you would like me to take special care of?, Dredd thought as he walked out of the office and towards the elevators after her, glaring at her back.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he fished it out and found a text message from Hershey: _About to march. Tremble, creeps, tremble! How was your audience?_ He cast a quick glance at McGruder's back, then hastily typed _She hates me_ and hit Send. Texting on duty was something he normally did not do – normally he left his phone in his locker, for a start – but currently he did not care. The reply came promptly, when they were in the elevator, and he made a point of reading it despite McGruder watching him: _Wow. You really have a way with people. _The laughing smiley face behind it was a fairly nasty touch.

* * *

Somehow Anderson had assumed that being a Judge meant not being dragged out of bed unceremoniously in the middle of the night. Now she had discovered that she had been mistaken, it made her decide to move out of the cadets' quarters in the Academy section of the Hall of Justice as soon as possible.

With her uniform jacket hastily pulled over her pyjamas, she listened to the briefing with growing anxiety. A virus that turned people into madmen? Crossing the Cursed Earth? She would have expected herself to be proud to be chosen for a special mission, but as she found out now, she mostly was nervous. And it did not help at all that McGruder was giving them an overview of their objective, with a bald, lanky Tek Division officer at her shoulder; the woman quite possibly was the person she feared most in the entire world. A good percentage of her fail marks came from McGruder's classes.

She quickly surveyed the others forming a semicircle in a corner of the vast experimental hangar that was filled with a busy bustle even at this time of night. One Judge in full street uniform was present, a tall, bearded man whose badge she couldn't read since he had his arms crossed. Another, standing right beside her, stocky and dark-skinned, wore Tek Division's brown gear. For some reason the twin boys from last night were there, too, with track suits over their pyjamas, huddled closely together and listening with wide eyes. They radiated excitement, as well as disbelief and a touch of fear. It was almost drowned out to her inner eye by the red-hot fumes of rage coming from the last man present, in civilian clothes, jeans and a plain black hooded sweater half unzipped over a grey T-shirt. He was standing there stony-faced, but he was furious enough to set the hangar on fire.

It took her a moment to realise that he was, in fact, none other than Dredd.

Of course, she had seen his face before, if only briefly. She had just never seen him in anything but his uniform. Had he been hastily roused from his bed, too? And summoned all the way from Sector 13? The mood he radiated certainly pointed in that direction, though she suspected there was more behind it. Occasionally his eyes would dart sideways, to the twins – did he suspect that he would once again end up with rookies to take care of? But was this really reason enough to be that angry?

"Engineer Stanton will brief you about your means of transportation shortly," McGruder was saying, "but before he does, each should know his intended function on this mission. Assistant Engineer Patton, you are to take care of the equipment. Judge Gradgrind, weapons and strategy. Judge Anderson, liaison." Liaison? That probably was the newly coined official term for psychic. "Judge Dredd, you are in charge. Cadets Tobler and Tobler…" Here she hesitated; Dredd's frown deepened. "Anderson." It took all the self-control Anderson could muster not to jump to attention like a nervous cadet. "You take charge of the cadets. Cadets, you are to follow Judge Anderson's every instruction to the letter. Failure to comply will result in expulsion from the Academy. Do you understand?"

Still wide-eyed, the twins chorused, "Yes, sir!" in perfect unison, their voices husky like most teenage boys'. Both were eyeing her sideways, and Anderson detected glittering curiosity spiking and flaring around them. She did not blame them; unlike her, they had no idea why they were placed with her.

"Sir, if I may," Dredd spoke up, and everybody's attention turned towards him. It seemed to Anderson that McGruder was radiating disapproval, but she was reluctant to read the Council member any more closely. "Does anyone here have any knowledge of the Cursed Earth?"

"I have been as far as Deliverance," the uniformed Judge – Gradgrind – replied. "But I believe _you_ do." He had taken his helmet off and held it under his arm now; his hair and beard were streaked with grey.

"Sir, I request to be assigned to Riot Squad." Dredd spoke calmly, but the pulses of red around him had increased. "You need someone familiar with the Cursed Earth on this mission, and that's not me. I ask to be placed under Judge Hershey's command instead."

"Denied," McGruder said curtly. She gestured towards the looming vehicle in desert camouflage colouring nearby that seemed to consist of a large armoured all-terrain cargo transporter built into a tank of unusual shape. Anderson had never seen its like before. "If you will be seated on the benches over there, Engineer Stanton will introduce you to your transport. You too, Dredd. Sit down."

"Very well," Dredd growled, "if this doesn't dishonour Judge Fargo's worthy buttocks."

There was stunned silence at this remark. _Judge Fargo's buttocks_? What was he talking about? The man from Tek Division, Patton, goggled like a fish, while Gradgrind merely raised his eyebrows. The twins gaped in shock, but at the same time tried very hard not to giggle, apparently – hadn't Hershey mentioned those two were Fargo clones? Was Dredd perhaps… was he a clone himself? A Fargo clone? Anderson had never thought about this possibility. But now she considered it… She did not recall Fargo's features that clearly from her studies, but if she remembered correctly, those pictures _had_ looked like an older version of Dredd. There certainly were similarities between Dredd's features and the twins', now she paid closer attention, and the hair colour was identical...

"This is an official reprimand," McGruder announced, and her voice was fit to freeze the oxygen out of the air. "To go on your record. Even a Senior Judge considered the Council's pampered prodigy for most of his life by everybody else is required to defer to his superiors… unless said wonder boy would prefer to see some disciplinary action? No? Well, then I suggest our dear boy keep a firm rein on his considerable arrogance henceforward. To your seats, all of you."

Everybody hurried to comply in subdued silence and with more or less ducked heads. Even Dredd kept his mouth shut and his face stony, though his fury raged like a volcano around him, creating a fiery aura Anderson had last seen cloaking him in Peach Trees. It seemed that the others were reluctant to sit next to him, as if McGruder's displeasure might be contagious – a notion she understood only too well, she rather felt like burrowing into the ground herself –, so she sat down in the empty space beside him and gave him a small smile, which he did not react to, though. He was staring straight ahead, fuming.

McGruder and the Tek Division officer came directly after them, conferring in whispers, then the officer said, in a voice higher than Anderson had expected, "The vehicle's systems allow for one more, so there is capacity for another passenger. Judge Dredd, if you have any suggestions about someone more familiar with the Cursed Earth to serve as a guide, we will be ready to hear them afterwards. But now… allow me to introduce our newest tested prototype… the Landraider, combining the Raider Truck and what we like to call the Killdozer."

* * *

Dredd hoped they had not transferred the prisoner yet, and for once this night he was lucky, as the computer console informed him. Dressed in his civilian clothes as he was, he rushed down into the prison facilities. Normally he wore his uniform when dealing with a prisoner, but this was a very special matter. Still, it did not feel right. Without his badge and uniform, who was he?

He tossed his ID card at the guards on duty outside the prison tract. Surprised as they were at seeing a Senior Judge turn up garbed as he was, they still let him pass without a question. They did not voice any protest when he asked to be handed a certain item taken from one of the prisoners, either.

The section reserved for prisoners awaiting interrogation or still in the questioning process was fairly empty. Day and night it was bathed in cold, garish light, and the cells were little more than cages, with nowhere to hide. The smell of chemicals permeated the air. One man lay flat on his face in the very first cell, dried blood crusting his hair, but Dredd paid him no heed. Those who performed the interrogations made sure the prisoners did not die – at least not until they were done with them.

He found the man he was looking for further down the empty corridor. There were no other prisoners kept nearby, which suited Dredd just fine. Lazily leaning against the meshed web of steel that was the door, he studied the curled-up form dressed in prison yellow for a little while before he said, "Hey. Wake up."

Spikes lifted his head and blinked into the light. There was a large purple bruise on his cheek that had not been there before. "Rico? ... No, Joe, sorry. I see that face, I can't help it."

Yes, I was counting on that... "Spikes," Dredd announced, "you are volunteering for a mission."

"What?" Spikes sat up abruptly. "I'm doing no such thing!"

"Shut up, and listen." He had to play this right. "And look at me. A long time ago, a friend saved your life, for the third time. You were very grateful then. You asked him what you could do for him in return. He told you he might ask you for a favour, when the time arrived. To which you said he had to make sure it was a _big_ favour." Dredd paused, mustering Spikes's face. He certainly held his attention. "I remember. I was there. Do _you_?"

Spikes nodded slowly, frowning. "I see where this is going. But you're not Rico, you know."

"Look at me and say it again."

Spikes rolled his eyes. "You're a manipulative fucker, you know that? Hang on, what's this?"

Dredd held the object he had drawn from his pocket up into the light. He had been fairly sure he recognised it when one of the wardens had taken it away from Spikes. "This? Your knife. Or rather, Rico's knife. He used to toy with it, remember?" He flicked it open. That was what butterfly knives were: toys to scare the faint-hearted. Lazily playing with it without watching what he was doing, he continued, "But I see you've let the blade go blunt, and it's nicked in several places, too. You don't use this as a weapon, Spikes. Not even as a tool. All these years, you've kept it for sentimental value. Am I right?"

Spikes scowled at him, then nodded reluctantly. "Alright, alright. I kept it 'cause Rico was my friend. But if you take it back now, there's nothing I can do."

"Ah, no. You get to keep it. You won it from him fair and square, as I recall. But in return, I'm collecting that favour. Now." Oh, to hell with psychology! Dredd did not have the patience for this. "Or I could simply punch you around for a bit, how's that? And then I'll leave you to rot in the cubes."

"You're a mean one, Judgey." Spikes grimaced up at him. "Just like your brother. Save your punches for someone else. What's the favour?"

"A mission across the Cursed Earth. We could do with someone who knows it. Someone who's lived out there." If that last psychological twist didn't work out, he would simply resort to violence. "I'll be honest with you, it's gonna be dangerous. Now, three times he's saved your life." Dredd held up three fingers for emphasis. "It would be a poor way of repaying him, letting his twin brother, the only family he has, walk right into death's arms, when you could have done something about it."

Spikes shot him a glare, then gave a howl of frustration that startled up another yellow-clad prisoner further along the corridor. "I _hate_ you, Joey Dredd! No, I _can't_ let you do that! I _can't_, and you fucking manipulative bastard _know_ it!"

Dredd felt a smug grin tug at the corners of his mouth. "Glad to hear you're volunteering, Spikes. It's appreciated. Oh, and don't call me Joey, or I _will_ yet punch you."


	3. The Journey begins

_**Author's Note:**__ Alright, citizens, I can see in my traffic stats (or, for comics readers, the Mighty Tharg told me) that over 200 people have read this. And all I get is a meagre 5 reviews? Seriously, citizens, I'm fairly sure not reviewing is an offence to be punished by an iso-cube sentence, with no reading material except badly spelled Twilight fanfic. You have been warned... :D_

* * *

**3. The Journey begins**

The carrier was huge. Anderson had been on board one of these once before, but its sheer size still impressed her. Seated in the passenger module along with the others, with the Academy's standard issue sports bag hastily stuffed with her belongings at her feet, she looked through the thick plastiscreen window at the Landraider in the cargo bay. The thing appeared a lot smaller than it was, especially inside that monster's belly. Even the passenger module was very spacious; it could easily have held an entire squad. The last time she had flown with one of those, there had been more than one squad with her. Despite the Tek Division crew being present as well, everything seemed huge and empty to her, and she felt tiny.

As they took off, the sun was rising over the sprawling city, its light glinting red on domes and window fronts. They had had the rest of the night to prepare for the journey, and everybody had hurried to oblige. Last to return had been Dredd, along with a civilian he called Spikes, a thin man with a bruised face and his hair, dyed black, sticking up in a way that matched his name. Dredd had still been angry, though the red-hot rage from before had subsided, while Spikes projected a very tangible air of sullenness that felt unpleasantly contagious.

The boys were excited, and it took a snarl from Dredd to get them to sit still. They still were chattering constantly, though they did their best to keep the volume down. Anderson observed them and occasionally probed into their heads a little bit, but apart from finding out that they had brought a massive amount of candy, that they considered Dredd a hero for provoking McGruder and that they were hoping for a less strict routine on this mission than they were used to from the Academy, she found out very little. There was no sign of what she had detected at the gym, at least for the moment. Were they aware that they were being watched? What they certainly did not realise was that she could read their minds, for they both not only found her attractive, but entertained several thoughts that made her want to pour a bucket of cold water over the pair of them. A large bucket.

Both Jack Patton and Robert Gradgrind were friendly, yet fairly quiet. As soon as he had taken his seat, Gradgrind pulled the folder they had been given at the briefing from his bag and began studying it with concentration. Patton was looking at what appeared to be a guide to some vehicle's engine, the Landraider's, most likely. But then again, he probably knew that well enough without a manual, or else he would not have been chosen for the mission.

The bulky carrier was slow, so their journey took a long time. At first Anderson tried to commit her own briefing folder to memory – it particularly fascinated her that their Landraider could be broken up into two separate vehicles, as Stanton had described the night before –, but the drone of the engines made her feel drowsy, and after a while she dozed off. How long she slept she did not know. It could have been minutes or a lot more, when she was startled awake by the others talking.

They were discussing sleeping arrangements. While the Raider Truck had two crammy bunks for two persons each, the Killdozer had none, strictly speaking, though there was a little room in its cargo hold. The twins seemed to fancy the idea of spreading out their blankets in the Killdozer, but Gradgrind in particular pointed out that cadets were not to be left alone with what was, strictly speaking, military equipment. Anderson volunteered to sleep there – it would mean a little more privacy, though most likely not much more room – so Spikes promptly said he would sleep there too, which earned him a glare from Anderson and a slap from Dredd. Patton did not want to share with any of the twins, Gradgrind did not want to share with Spikes, Spikes did not want to share with Dredd, despite the fact that he seemed to know him, and the twins wanted to stay together. Probably fearing they would be combined with someone they did not like, Gradgrind and Patton agreed to share one of the bunks, which did little to solve the rest of the problem. Spikes wanted a place to himself now. Finally Dredd got fed up and ordered the twins to move into the second bunk with Spikes, because there was no way he was letting any of them stay in the Killdozer unsupervised. Which, of course, left him to sleep in the Killdozer with Anderson, a solution she was rather glad for, because he was the only one among the assembled she knew any better. She just hoped he did not snore.

When the carrier finally landed, around midday in this time zone, according to the sun, it was in a barren stretch of desert. There were mountains visible at a distance, but apart from that, the landscape was sun-scorched and empty. Anderson stepped out into the blinding light, blinking, and felt as if diving into liquid heat. She wondered what the radiation levels were like here. Not too high, probably, or they would not have landed in this spot. Or would they?

According to her folder, those must be the so-called Mutie Mountains ahead. Mutant territory. Her own kind… though she was reluctant to consider them that, if the stories could be believed.

"This should be a beach," Patton said, taking a look around. "Just add palm trees, blue sea... like in the old pictures."

"Try the Black Atlantic," Dredd remarked dryly. "It's the closest you'll get to your little dream. When you close your eyes and hold your breath, you might even forget about all the oil. Aren't you supposed to help your buddies unload?" In full uniform, he looked decidedly out of place in the middle of nowhere.

Patton rolled his eyes, but promptly trotted over to where the Tek Division crew was slowly guiding the Landraider down the landing ramp. Others were already preparing supplies to be loaded into it or stood ready with check lists and toolboxes. There were a few construction robots, too. Anderson wondered whether they were going to build some last-minute modifications into the vehicle. But then again, a member of Tek Division was unhappy without a toolbox, as the old joke went.

"Where exactly are we?" Spikes demanded. "You can't expect me to recognise each fucking grain of sand between Deliverance and Repentance, goddammit!"

"What use are you, then?" Gradgrind muttered, not loud enough for Spikes to hear, but Anderson caught it. Clearly he did not approve of the guide Dredd had chosen. Maybe he did not approve of Dredd being in charge, either; Anderson could not say for certain without digging deeper.

"Deliverance and Repentance?" one of the twins repeated, grimacing. Anderson thought he was Thiago, but she was not entirely sure. "Do all places have stupid names like that?" the other twin asked, obviously continuing his brother's line of thought. They both were wearing their uniforms, too, those cadets wore on their not too frequent missions outside the Academy: very similar to a street Judge's uniform, except that their helmets were white, and that their badges did not bear their names and were shaped like half an eagle. Half a Judge's badge.

"You know what?" Gradgrind said suddenly. "Which one of you is Andrin?"

"Me," replied the one Anderson had thought was Thiago. "And it's pronounced An-_dreen_."

Gradgrind snorted. "Fine, An-_dreeeen_. From now on you'll be wearing a ribbon around your arm."

"But why?" the boy protested. "I'm not a zoo animal! Sir," he added, as an afterthought.

Gradgrind drew himself up, and Anderson found the way he pushed out his chest rather amusing. "Because you –"

"Leave him," Dredd interrupted. "He's Anderson's charge. To the rest of us, they're both called Tobler, and that's it. Why should you care which is which?" Without waiting for a reaction from his fellow Judge, he grabbed Andrin by the shoulder, and the triumphant smile that had only just appeared on the boy's face vanished immediately. Reaching out with his other hand, he snatched Thiago too and pulled him towards him. "Now listen here." Was his voice the usual growl, or had he added a threatening note? "I won't give a damn which one is which normally… except when I do. And when I do, you won't try to switch names back and forth, or any of that. Because I'll know. Keep that in mind. Now go and help the folks from Tek."

"Yes, sir!" the twins chorused and practically ran towards the men and women in the brown uniforms of Tek Division as soon as he let them go. One did not have to be a psychic to detect Dredd's mood, and it was only common sense to stay clear of him and not to displease him any further.

"Sir," Anderson asked quietly, jogging to keep up with him as he strode after the cadets, "how can you tell them apart?" She had thought she could do it by looking into their heads, but she was no longer sure.

"Matter of fact, I can't," he admitted, equally quietly. "No need for them to know, though."

* * *

Now we're on our own, Dredd thought, gazing after the carrier. On our own, and a long way from home.

Decidedly he climbed aboard, joined Patton in the Raider Truck's cockpit and gave the order to start. The vehicle's low, pulsing engine throb turned into a deep growl like a huge feral creature's, and their journey began.

At least part of the way was behind them. Around one third, according to the map, barren wasteland and radiation pits mixed with the occasional more or less fertile soil, where settlers lived on the sparse fruit and vegetables they grew, and in constant fear of lawless mutant tribes. Cast out of the mega-cities, the mutants flocked together in some areas of the Cursed Earth, thriving under conditions too hard for normal people to live with – or at least that was what the rumours said. Mega-City One did not care what became of the mutants that were hounded out into the wasteland, and neither did Dredd, to be honest. Twisted freaks, the lot of them. If they were allowed to interbreed with normal people, mankind would end up even more degenerate than it already was. It might be a mercy to put them out of their misery straight away, and he was fairly certain he was not the only one who thought like that, but while mutants were not exactly human, they definitely were vertebrate, and under the law killing a vertebrate without a specific reason was a crime.

Anderson was a mutant, though, and the girl had turned out fine. Chief Judge Goodman was right, it was advisable to overlook her status in the Hall of Justice's interest.

From his place beside Patton, watching him work the Landraider's controls, he glanced back over his shoulder, to where Anderson sat. The girl had discarded her helmet and protective vest and was watching the cadets studying their briefing folder in the small sitting area. She might be poking around in their heads, who knew? And who knew what those boys were with them for? He planned to take Anderson aside and have a word with her about the situation. They were a pair of Fargo clones, which made them capable cadets, no doubt. It also made them, in a way, his little brothers, and he wasn't exactly sure how he felt about that.

Gradgrind was in the back, of course, inside the Killdozer, checking the weapon systems and the pair of light armed speeder bikes. Spikes had been allowed to crawl through the connecting hatch with him, under the condition that he didn't touch anything – something Dredd wouldn't have trusted him with, but it was Gradgrind's problem if he allowed the nosy punk in there, not his. The Landraider could be steered from the console inside the Killdozer module too, though apparently the controls inside the Raider Truck were more practical – and according to Patton, it was not only because one could sit down while steering. Weapons control, however, was mainly situated in the Killdozer, which made sense, since the thing boasted not only machine guns, like the Raider Truck did, but an impressive trio of cannons and a rocket launcher.

He was starting to believe that the carrier crew had put them down shortly before Deliverance out of pure laziness and seriously considered talking to Control about it when at last the sandstorm came. Within minutes, the clear, hazy sky turned into a blur of beige, and soon there was nothing they could see out of the Raider Truck's front screen, nothing except blowing sand.

"Can you navigate through that?" Dredd asked, at the same time as Spikes suggested, from the back of the Truck, "We had better seek cover somewhere."

"Yes, sir," Patton said decidedly, nodding with conviction. "We can run on sensors only, though I'll have to take out some speed for safety reasons."

"Do whatever you see fit," Dredd gave him free rein. He was not familiar with the Landraider himself; it was not his decision to make. "Keep in mind that we're staying clear of Deliverance, though."

"What?" Spikes protested as Dredd squeezed past the seats. "Why? There's food and drink and women and –"

"Precisely why we're staying clear," Dredd replied curtly.

* * *

The sandstorm lasted for about four hours, four hours spent crawling ahead. But at least they were moving. Part of this time Dredd glowered at the obscured windscreen from the small sitting area, his impatience not allowing him to properly concentrate on the briefing files on his knees. Two hours lost while Tek Division checked and double-checked the equipment, and now many more at this pace... The estimated time to Mega-City Two was thirteen days, and Dredd could not wait for them to be over.

Patton remained very calm the whole time, focused on nothing but the readouts on his console. Spikes disappeared to his bunk to get some sleep. Though sullen-faced, the twins sat opposite him and used the time to study, and Anderson sat with them, reading something on her glove screen – something on the Cursed Earth from the Hall of Justice's database, it seemed. Gradgrind only briefly turned up, then disappeared back through the connecting hatch, into the Killdozer. Dredd suspected the man was equally impatient, though it might just be his lack of interest in anything not to do with heavy artillery.

When finally the sky cleared and the swirling sheets of sand settled down once more to reveal a sun approaching the horizon ahead, Patton immediately set a good pace. Returning to the seat beside him, Dredd watched him closely, trying to figure out how to steer the Landraider. He had some basic idea how to operate heavy vehicles, as all Judges did, he had even driven an armoured Patrol Wagon on occasion, though he much preferred his Lawmaster. But the Landraider was a different type of transportation, of course. He surely hoped there would be no need for him to ever permanently take over at the helm – yet who could tell? – but it might be useful if Patton were not the only one who could easily operate the vehicle.

When they finally reached the town of Deliverance, the sun low in the sky already, they gave it a wide berth. Since they had plenty of provisions, there was no need to go there, and besides, while its inhabitants were human, according to intelligence and reluctantly confirmed by Spikes, making closer contact was not advisable. The written briefing gave no reason, Gradgrind had not been there recently, but spoke of peculiar customs, and all Spikes would say was "fucking nutters, half of them" – though he insisted that he would like to still go and stay "under the radar" – but that was good enough for Dredd.

"When it gets dark," Dredd informed his crew, "we'll stop for the night. Patton, you get some rest, and you, Gradgrind – what was that, Patton?" For just then the vehicle ground to a sudden halt.

Patton's thick black eyebrows practically leapt together. "Dunno, sir, but it sure doesn't look good... Ah, here." He pointed to a display directly in front of Dredd. "Something got stuck in the right crawler. Shouldn't happen. Well, I'll go check."

"Go on," Dredd said. "Radiation's low here, so no hurry." Of course, he hoped Patton would have fixed the problem within minutes, but according to the background check he had done before their departure, the man was a very diligent and capable Engineer, so there was no need to push him. "Gradgrind, with him."

"Thank you, sir." With his toolkit already under his arm, Patton unlocked the side door and leapt out.

When Gradgrind returned a while later to lower the Killdozer's back ramp and bring out the heavy turbo wrench, Dredd saw no reason to worry as yet, but when, after considerable time, Patton activated the maintenance robot Tek Division had stowed in a compartment in the Killdozer, Dredd got a bad feeling. And when Patton stuck his head in again to give a wordy explanation rich with technical terms of which Dredd only understood part, he knew they were in trouble. "Alright, let's be clear here," he finally interrupted. "No more tek babble. The crawler chain is torn in one place because some weirdly formed piece of junk managed to get stuck in it against all odds, and the chassis is damaged somehow? What the fuck did we run over, a crashed alien spacecraft? Can you repair the thing with what we have, yes or no?"

Patton hung his head dejectedly. "No. I can weld the chain together again, but I had better replace the quattrocore lock and the right-aft hanging axle."

Dredd suppressed a groan. This mission was going wrong before it had even properly started. "So, I try and contact Control?"

"Actually…" Patton hesitated. "Actually, Gradgrind and Spikes both think we can get a new quatt lock at Deliverance easily, and an axle too, most likely, though if we can't, I can rig one up from stuff we have." When Dredd didn't interrupt, he went on, more quickly, "If Control were to send us the stuff, we'd have to calculate at least another day, if not more, including the repair work itself – that is, if they don't have to turn back because of another storm. They're predicting more nasty weather to come in from the South around midmorning, unless I'm very much mistaken. Even if we report back right now, it won't save us any time, they won't fly in the night, not to this place. Do you think they'd risk it, being here before the storm hits? If we uncouple the Truck and head to town, though… We could be done in a day, too, no matter if a storm hits or not."

Dredd considered the proposal. He did not like the idea, but he had to admit that Patton was right. The weather report sheet in their folders could not be disregarded. If they waited for Control to send them spare parts, they might be stuck in this place for several days, at worst, which of course raised the unpleasant question if their water tanks would last all the way to Dunesea. They should, even if they took a week longer, and Control could always send them more, along with the spare parts, of course… but still, it was an uncertain situation. "How sure is Gradgrind about this?" he asked at last.

"Positive," Gradgrind replied himself, appearing at Patton's shoulder. His thinning hair, brown streaked with grey, was plastered to his forehead with sweat. "I also know the place where to get it. People around here use crawler vehicles a lot, they work better in the sand. There's a fairly large repair shop at the south end of town, where they're bound to have what we need." He paused and cleared his throat. "Also, sir… Personally, I don't want to take the detour. But they might have some relevant information on things over at the Mutie Mountains. Something our own intelligence reports missed, what with them usually bothering little about what goes on out here."

"And I know the owner of that repair place," Spikes volunteered. "One Stacy Fredriksen. A local, born and raised in the Cursed Earth. Suspicious of outsiders, but will do business with me. As for news from Mutieland, just let me handle it. No need for our Judge here to get his beard dusty."

"Very well," Dredd agreed reluctantly, after a questioning look to Gradgrind, who gave a small nod at what Spikes had said and a scowl at his last remark. His fellow Judge definitely had a point. "We'll stay here for the night – we'll have to – and head to Deliverance tomorrow morning. If we have to go there anyway, we might as well get some more water, so everyone gets a quick shower tomorrow night. Patton and Spikes, you're coming to town with me. You too, Anderson. Gradgrind, I'll be leaving you in charge here." Gradgrind inclined his head slightly. Dredd had expected him to readily accept this duty, since this was pretty much the only alternative to going to Deliverance, which he so clearly did not want to do. "Thiago Tobler, first watch. You're not leaving the console here until 11:00, then your brother takes over. Gradgrind, third watch, from 3:00 on. Wake me at 7:00. You can take turns getting some rest while we're gone."

If anything, the boys looked proud. But Dredd had known only too well that they would be.

* * *

Anderson had mostly spent the day getting to know the Landraider better, and observing the twins inbetween. She was starting to get a pretty good idea about what was going on with them, and eventually she would have to confront them, but the time was not ripe just yet. That it would tire her was something she had not expected. Grateful for the chance to withdraw, she slipped into the Killdozer, where the boys – under Gradgrind's watchful eye, no doubt – had made themselves useful earlier on and placed two piles of blankets on the small platform above the cargo hold, in the very back of the vehicle. Between upper engine access panel and back hull, this would be a noisy spot while in motion.

She pulled off her jacket and boots, and since Dredd was not there yet, she settled down against the rail above the hold. When he came, he could take the side from where one could squeeze through to the command console. He would prefer that side, she assumed.

She did not hear him come. The next thing she knew, everything was dark around her, and bands of steel around her chest, and she was tossed from side to side in a smoky emptiness –

Gasping for breath, she realised she still was inside the Killdozer, tangled in her blankets, and Dredd was kneeling beside her, shaking her. "What –" she began, and then the memories rushed back to her, and she groaned and clutched the blankets to her convulsively. It took her a moment to notice she was clutching his hand, too, and she hastily let go.

"Nightmare?" his voice asked above her. She could barely make out his face in the darkness of the Killdozer's hull.

"Yes," she answered weakly. "Really vivid nightmare. Very... very bad." Had she screamed and woken him by it?

"Your first days on duty come back to haunt you? That's normal." He sat back against the hull on his side and tucked the blankets up to his waist once more. Like her, he had merely taken off his jacket and boots; the weak control lights above the engine panel, flecks of pale green in the darkness, revealed that he wore a tight-fitting black T-shirt.

"No, it was... it was different." She had had duty-related nightmares before, just like she had had plenty of Academy-related nightmares in her time, but never something like this. "I dreamed of a world where all was dead. It was coming closer and closer, like... I don't know. Like a ship that passed us in the night. Like a bubble I could see into, all grey and empty and dead. And when our world and the dead one met, there were... connections. They sprang up, like static electricity... they crackled and burned. I could practically smell them, they smelled like ozone, and... I couldn't say what else. The walls of our world were torn open, like paper..." She paused, shuddering. The memory was far too vivid still. It had felt so real! "And the dead came to judge us."

"It was just a dream," he said gently. "The dead can't hurt you. Go back to sleep."

"I know." She felt foolish. "It's just... I don't think I could sleep right now." She felt so shaken that she hardly dared to close her eyes, but she did not want to tell him that.

In the semi-darkness she saw him stir; he disentangled himself from his blankets and got up. "Come on, then. I'll show you something." He reached up to the ceiling, and there was a click, and then pale light fell into the Killdozer's dark interior. He had opened the top hatch. "Bring the blankets."

Getting to her feet swiftly, she did as he had told her. He pulled himself up through the hatch, and she handed the blankets to him, then followed, though not as easily. Since she was not as tall as he was by far, she had to climb the metal rungs built into the wall and then lean backwards to pull herself through the hatch. It was something she might point out to Tek Division as a flaw in construction design, she thought as she struggled to climb out without looking too clumsy. Luckily Dredd offered her a hand and pulled her up, out into the moonlight.

What was he going to show her? Something on the Landraider? But night would be an odd time for that. Somehow she doubted he collected stamps or anything of the like. His scars, maybe? He was bound to have a handful of those, and maybe they looked more spectacular in the moonlight, she mused, iggling inwardly at the thought.

They had emerged on the very top of the vehicle. The Raider Truck roof lay below them with its dimly lit cockpit, beyond the Killdozer's metal gallery and looming triangular crawlers that flanked them. The Landraider was a quaint monstrosity in an otherwise barren landscape of rocks and sand. At a distance she could see the lights of Deliverance glitter, small and forlorn in the wasteland. The desert was painted in a stark pattern of grey and black by a pale waxing moon directly above their heads.

And all around it... Now she knew what Dredd meant to show her. She had seen pictures before, of course, but the true radiance of the clear night sky out here, far from the lights of human habitation, was enough to take her breath away. Never before had she seen so many stars with her own eyes. The brightest ones were dim specks of light above Mega-City One, where it never was truly dark; she even knew some of their names, and which formations they belonged to. But she had never truly realised that there were so many inbetween. The Milky Way was a glowing band of light across the sky, as clearly discernible as she had only seen it on sketches in books and shown in screen graphics until then.

Dredd was sitting on the Killdozer's roof cross-legged, with a blanket loosely draped around his shoulders, and looking up at the stars. With his dark hair tousled and without his uniform, one might almost think he was just a man. Almost.

He did not turn his head as she sat down beside him. Of his profile, she mostly recognised his chin. The rest of his face still seemed strange to her. But she was fairly certain now that it was Fargo's profile. "Why the cadets, Anderson?" he asked softly, proving that he was not entirely lost in admiring the star-strewn sky.

She had expected the question eventually, of course, but there was no answer she had prepared. "It's… they're… it's…"

"Classified," he broke in harshly. "I know. What did they tell you about me?"

"Who?" she asked, surprised at this question. "The twins? Nothing. They didn't talk about –"

"The Council," he broke in. "McGruder, Goodman, Griffin, that bastard Slocum … whoever. What did they say?" He was radiating anger now, flaring spikes of yellow. Particularly the last name stood out, it boiled and frothed through his consciousness. An old grudge. A personal matter. A matter that had caused him pain.

"Nothing," she replied, unsettled by the turn this had taken. What was wrong? What did he think was going on behind his back? "I spoke to Chief Judge Goodman, but to none of the others. And she never mentioned you once. Really. I don't even _know_ Judge Slocum." That one was head of the so-called Special Judicial Squad, the department for internal investigations, and had succeeded the infamous madman Cal, many years ago, but that was all she knew about him.

Now he was looking at her, and she avoided his gaze. "If you don't tell me, I'll get it out of Hershey," he said flatly, his voice a quiet growl.

"Honestly, sir!" Anderson insisted. "I would never lie to you!" How could she convince him? Should she really tell him to go ahead and simply ask Hershey about it? But she had no idea if Hershey had been told the truth or not. What if Hershey told him something different? Then he would never trust her again.

The truth. It was the only way. "It's not about you, sir," she confessed. "Not at all. It's about the twins. They're psychics."

He swore under his breath, an expression that would have made a gutter-dwelling lowlife proud. "They're mutants? They're perverted Fargo stock?"

Anderson swallowed the implied insult with as much of a straight face as she could manage. "From what Chief Judge Goodman told me, it wasn't planned. It just happened. I don't know what they were trying to achieve with them. All I know is, they're psychics, though I think they're not fully aware of it yet. Chief Judge Goodman had me watch them last night, at the gym. She told me afterwards that the folks responsible suspected some special connection between them, but without me, she couldn't know for sure. She wants me to work with them, sir. To teach them, even. Because she wants to build up a unit with… you know, people like them, and me. People who can put their special powers to some use." She had told him too much, she knew it, just so he would believe that she was telling the truth, and she felt ashamed for being such a silly little girl and betraying Goodman's confidence just to regain Dredd's approval. But there was no taking it back now.

The flaring anger had faded beside her, though, leaving nothing but a pale residue before her inner eye. Dredd was silent for a while, resting his chin on his fist. Several times Anderson wanted to reach out to him and read his mind, but every time she restrained herself. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "What you need to understand… I'm a Fargo clone, too, and I had a brother once, a twin…" He faltered, and Anderson felt the unspoken words without trying to read them in his thoughts, the glow that suddenly sprang up around him: My life. My world. My everything.

And then the images came, unbidden, as it sometimes happened when someone in her immediate vicinity was experiencing a strong thought or emotion. So close to him, they glided from his consciousness into hers without her prompting them, a dim reflection of what he saw in his own mind, no doubt, but how vivid, how brilliant they must be to him, if they came to her like that! _A laughing boy, his face identical to the Tobler brothers' features, rushing ahead, along a corridor, looking back over his shoulder. "Get me, Joey! C'mon, get me!" And Joe ran after him, the bag with his books forgotten… They were very small, almost toddlers still, sitting on the floor and looking at a vidbook about hovercraft with rapt attention… Older once more, practising at the gun range, the twin brother striking a pose… _Rico. His name was Rico. _Leaving the classroom first while the other cadets still were writing their exam, already caught up in a mock-quarrel over who would score higher this time… _It was Rico, usually._ A pillow-battle in their narrow little room, and this time Joe was winning… Later on, Joe lay tucked in cosily in the lower bunk, with his cheek on Rico's shoulder, not so nervous anymore about the next day's practical exercise… _They had switched bunks every night, though sometimes, especially on nights before important exams, they had snuggled up in the same together – something they would never have admitted to anyone else, of course. _Rico was a grown man now, though there was a lot of the boy left in his face, in full cadet uniform and with his white helmet under his arm, wearing a contemptuous sneer that strangely suited him… "We're gods, Joey! We can do anything! Never forget that." … The attackers, out in the desert, black-clad shapes, twisted silhouettes… _Mutants._ The gunfire. Rico leaping, pushing him out of the way… Joe fell, with Rico's body covering him… The torn vest, the blood…_

The screen of control, the very first thing she had been aware about him, slammed down like a steel shutter, burying the boy Joe deep in the tomb that was his heart. The man Dredd was back, as if he had never been gone. "One day I'll tell you," he said, his voice devoid of emotions. "But not tonight."

"I'm sorry," Anderson echoed him quietly. There was nothing else she could think of to say.

"Not your fault." He had returned to his usual tight-lipped self.

They sat in silence for a long time, looking up at the myriad of stars, and the moon bathed them in a pale sheen they barely noticed.


	4. Deliverance

**_Author's Note:_**  
_Thank you all for your feedback. It's appreciated. Yes, reviews in German are readily accepted as well. :)_ _Keep it up, and Chapter 5 is going to be here in just a few days._  
_And someone even caught the Dark Judges reference. Kudos to you, citizen!_

* * *

**4. Deliverance**

As she had expected, Barbara Hershey was not relieved from duty when morning came. Instead, she was assigned a slot at one of the sleep machines, with orders to report back to her post half an hour after it ended. This might continue for days, she knew, before they finally sent her to get some real sleep for five or six hours. Unless the riots were crushed first, but at the moment they were spreading, and every single Judge who could be spared was out in the streets with Riot Squad, Aerial Unit or Tank Crew.

Maybe Dredd was better off, she thought with a little smile to herself.

Since she had nothing better to do for now, she sauntered over to Comm Central to see if her old Academy friend Lincoln was on duty. He had never been a good student, except in the technical subjects, where he had been a little below average. That he had failed his exams had not been a surprise, and neither had anyone been surprised when he had decided to stay in the Academy's service as a technical auxiliary, though that he had chosen the communications department of Tek Division had been a little unexpected, from the way he had always tinkered around with robots. Now Lincoln was deputy head of Long Range's technical staff, and doing a fine job apparently.

She was lucky; he was on duty and readily allowed her into his realm, a smaller communications central beside the vast room that housed Control. When she asked him to contact the Landraider, he obliged her straight away.

The call was answered by a bronze-skinned man, possibly of Mexican origin, in Tek Division uniform, but the video wavered, and they soon switched to audio only. The man did bring Dredd, though, for after a short period of waiting she heard his raspy voice. "Hershey? Still up, eh?"

"Waiting my turn at the sleep machine," she informed him. "No luck yet with the riots. We've set them an ultimatum, but I doubt they'll surrender. The air strike's ready, and they must be aware it is, but… well, seemingly they're aiming to go out in a blaze of glory."

"It's the only way to go, Hershey." She knew him well enough to detect the fine note of amusement in his voice.

"I just fear it's gonna rally support for them. And then it's block war all over again." Hershey sighed. "How about you? Enjoying the lovely landscape, with the occasional dose of radiation?"

He snorted audibly. "Landraider's busted a crawler already, just like that. Ridiculous, eh? Don't ask me to get technical. Tek Division guy says he can fix it, but we'll have to get spare junk at Deliverance. Was hoping to avoid that."

"You mean you don't have spare parts?" she asked, astonished at that blatant lack of preparation.

"Oh, we do. Just not what we need right now." He produced a sound that might have been a laugh. "Tek guy says those things hardly ever break. Million to one chance. You know how it goes."

Hershey chuckled at that. "Well… Have fun at Deliverance, then. Like they said in the old times, send me a postcard."

This time he really laughed, though without mirth. "If we ever make it that far. You wouldn't believe how tough it is to uncouple the Truck when the Killdozer's not moving. So we thought we'd just take the speeder bikes, down the ramp at the Killdozer's rear. Turns out our current angle and the ground don't work well together. So now we're digging a landing ramp thing in the sand. Been at it for half an hour, and I'm telling you, it's _fucking boiling_ out here."

Hershey laughed. "You're not wearing your helmet by any chance, are you?"

"Matter of fact? I'm not even wearing a shirt. And still melting. This place is a hellhole."

"I hope you didn't forget about using sun screen."

"You sound like my mother," Dredd grumbled.

"The cloning tank spoke to you? Seriously? I'll have you scheduled for psych eval."

"Oh, shut up."

Again Hershey laughed. This conversation was truly cheering her up. "Just don't expect me to pity you when you catch sunburn." She glanced at her watch. "Ah, I'm up at the sleep machine. Take care, Joe. And say hi to Anderson from me, I like the girl."

"Will do," he promised. "Give those creeps the blaze of glory they're begging for."

"You bet." Hershey smiled as the connection was terminated. She thanked Lincoln and hastened back to whence she had come, to enjoy the comforts of artificial relaxation.

It was a pity Dredd was not there with her now. Apparently he had requested to be placed under her command... which would have been a bother, no doubt, since he tended to believe he was in charge until he was set down firmly, and then he usually tried to nudge or bully people into the direction he wanted them to go, anyway. But still, she appreciated the notion.

And instead he was stuck in the desert, digging in the sand. Hershey had to admit to herself that she found the idea funny, but at least she felt bad about it. A little.

* * *

"You do what Judge Gradgrind tells you," Anderson reminded the boys for the second time, for good measure, and they nodded sullenly. They clearly would have liked to go to Deliverance too. "Now in you go. Get cleaned up." Ordering anyone around was new to her and made her feel both exhilarated and guilty about feeling exhilarated at the same time.

Picking up their discarded jackets and T-shirts, they trudged back up the lowered ramp obediently, into the Killdozer's cargo hold, from where they had just brought out the bikes. But she could easily make out the angry mutters that flashed back and forth between them silently. They feared Gradgrind would either put them to work or set them to study, and Anderson knew those fears were going to come true all too soon.

Eventually she would have to tell them that she could hear their wordless conversations if she just listened.

"Patton, Anderson, civilian clothes," Dredd ordered. "Ragged, if possible. Dirty and sweaty is good." Still stripped to the waist, he glistened with sweat himself, and his hair was plastered to his head. Small chance he would clean himself up before they left, but then again, he was supposed to impersonate a denizen of the Cursed Earth, so a bath would be fairly unrealistic.

All the same, he looked... nice without a shirt. Most Judges did, from what she had seen at the gym. She had been so used to everybody around her being in fine shape that the first fat man she had encountered after a long time, when she had left the Academy with her fellow cadets on a guided excursion, had been a small shock to her.

And his recent gunshot wound was still visible, though faded to a pale reddish shade. Soon it might not be noticeable at all anymore. The Hall of Justice's medical facilities truly worked miracles. Anderson wondered whether her own scar would fade as much. The wound was completely healed, of course, but since it had not been caused by armour-piercing ammunition, which did a lot of damage to hard materials, but punched through flesh cleanly, it had been a messier wound.

Because she did not own any civilian clothes herself, she had been given a bag containing various items, by the same department that equipped the undercover units. Until now she had not sorted through it, so the discovery that she might have to wear a flimsy red dress came as an unpleasant surprise. She had worn dresses before, but as a little girl, and she hardly remembered what it felt like and had little desire to find out again. But the jeans in the bag definitely looked too good for the costume she was supposed to come up with, and the cargo shorts only were a good option at first glance, at second they looked more like what a mercenary would wear, and they were to avoid a militant appearance, Dredd had said. When she discovered a pair of bright blue hot pants, she actually felt relieved. She hastily discarded the flimsy red nightmare again and pulled them on in the cargo hold, grateful that the others were either in the Raider Truck or still outside, so she had a moment on her own to get used to the strange piece of garment. It hardly covered her at all, which was... weird. No matter whether she tucked them upward or downward, she always felt like she was wearing nothing but underpants. It was an odd feeling, to say the very least. But it was better than the dress, no doubt. Maybe the dress covered more of her legs, but she probably could not kick in it very well.

There was a pair of heels in the bag, she discovered. No way in hell was she going to wear those! She probably could not have walked in them on a city sidewalk, let alone in the sand. The worn brown combat boots that most likely went with the cargo shorts would have to do. There was a white top in her bundle that looked acceptable to her, and to protect her shoulders from the sun she threw on an old camouflage print jacket from the clothes bundle given to the twins, then added a black cap, also from the twins' things, for good measure. Which still left her legs mostly bare, but there was nothing she could do about it. At least the jacket covered all of her backside, something she wasn't too sure about with the hot pants.

She probably looked stupid now. She felt stupid.

At least she could easily slip her knife into the jacket pocket. Orders had been not to go visibly armed, and she saw no way to conceal her Lawgiver about her person, but the knife made her feel a little better. And her unique abilities gave her a certain advantage, she told herself. In case of danger, one of her mind tricks might come in useful.

Dredd and Spikes emerged from the Raider Truck just as she left the Killdozer. Spikes was sporting torn jeans and an equally torn vest, with no shirt underneath – which did not suit him too well, in Anderson's opinion, since he was not only skinny, but covered in partially healed scratches and bruises all over. His hair stuck up as ever, and his eyes were covered by a pair of goggles that made him look like a cartoon alien. Dredd was dressed in a similar fashion, minus the goggles and the tragic hairstyle, thankfully, and in contrary to Spikes, and despite the fact that he could have afforded to go without one, he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. In this attire, he would not have stood out to her in the streets; she probably would have walked right past him. Patton was waiting already, in discreet khaki and grey, but wearing a studded cowboy hat that spoiled the effect somewhat.

As they saw her, they all looked at her, and Spikes put on a smirk that made her even more uncomfortable than she felt already. "Do I look like a hooker?" she asked, trying to laugh, but it probably sounded fake.

"Only if you put on some make-up," Spikes said. "Lots, in fact. Do we have any, Judgey?"

"No," Anderson said firmly. No way in hell was she going to use make-up!

"It'll do," Dredd commented, ending the discussion before it had even begun. "Patton, get on the bike with Spikes. Spikes, if anything happens to him, you're wearing that hat of his for the rest of your life. Stapled to your head."

Spikes climbed onto one of the bikes, muttering something about cruel and unusual punishment, while Patton merely rolled his eyes and got on behind him. Grateful she wasn't the one who had to ride with Spikes, Anderson got on the other bike, behind Dredd. She would have preferred to steer, but she doubted he would let her, even if she asked politely.

As she put her arms around his waist – something she had never expected to be doing with him –, she immediately noticed that he was wearing a pistol concealed under his clothes. Not his Lawgiver, that would have been harder to hide, but still a gun. It was hardly fair.

* * *

When they finally reached Deliverance, Anderson felt coated in dust. She even had sand between her teeth. It could be worse, she told herself, they could be wading through radioactive slush or something like that, and she could be wearing a dress and heels. And make-up.

They left the bikes a short walk outside town, behind a sheer rock tooth covered in bristly climbers, and continued on foot. There was a palisade wall built out of metal pipes around part of the settlement, but the greater part lay outside, stone houses of any shape that came to mind, but none higher than three or four stories. At the very outskirts, a man was lounging beside a machine gun mounted on a platform, smoking a pipe and eyeing them suspiciously. Spikes gave him a lazy wave, to which he did not react.

To her relief, Anderson saw that she did not stand out much. Most people here were wearing ill-assorted clothing, and most were dusty and dirty. Several men wore no shirts beneath their vests, like Spikes did. The streets between the houses were not paved; dust clouded their feet wherever they went. Craftsmen were busy outside their houses, hammering furniture together, making repairs to the slate roofs, working on vehicles that looked like relics from the last century. As it seemed, nobody was paying the strangers any mind – the place had too many inhabitants for everyone to know everybody, in her estimation – but even where people were barely sparing them a glance, she sensed suspicion, a prickly feeling like a handful of thorns.

Spikes had been leading the way confidently, but now he fell back a step so he could speak to the others without being overheard. "There's been an attack recently," he told them. "See the ruin over there?" He nodded at a set of crumbling walls without a roof, empty windows gaping into nothingness.

"Strange," Dredd observed. "One would think there'd be more damage, then." He had raised the hood on his vest, covering his sweat-soaked hair – though Anderson doubted that was the reason. Was he so used to wearing a helmet that not wearing it bothered him?

Spikes frowned. His eyebrows were thin, compared to Patton's, Anderson noticed. "Well, they _do_ hit single spots sometimes..." But he did not sound very convinced.

"Rico?" a female voice beside Anderson suddenly asked. "Rico Dredd? Is that you?"

They stopped short in their tracks. Anderson spun to face the woman, and so did Dredd beside her. She didn't look like much, Anderson thought, rather small and thin and with more or less pretty, yet nondescript features and untidy brown hair, though with surprisingly voluptuous curves that screamed surgery from a mile away. "It _is_ you," she continued before Dredd could react in any way. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in _years_! You never called! Not once! You might at least have –"

And then something happened that Anderson would not have expected at all. Dredd's stance seemed to relax; he suddenly adopted something she might have called a swagger had he not been standing still. "Jenny, wasn't it?" he interrupted the beginning tirade.

The girl shot him a furious glare. "It's Sandra."

From behind them, Spikes snickered. "Awkward," he remarked, sounding positively delighted.

"Whatever," Dredd said calmly. "Right, I think Jenny was the one after you. Or the one after that one, I don't really remember. We had a good time, but times change. Why dwell on the past?" He lazily placed an arm around Anderson's shoulders. "I've had no need, not since I met Cassie here."

Your exchangeable girlfriend, am I? Your temporary occupation? Anderson wanted to roll her eyes at the turn this was taking, but instead snaked an arm around Dredd's waist, carefully avoiding the gun so she would not reveal it by accident, and did her best to look up at him in a sappy way. Up close he smelled of sweat, which made it harder. Oh Rico, my love, my hero, my fairytale prince... It made her want to giggle. Then she recalled that Rico most likely was dead, and she felt bad at finding this funny.

Why did they have to pretend, anyway? Dredd's mind felt as steel-coated as so often; she could not tell what he was thinking, not without more careful probing.

What she did sense, though, was what the woman radiated: It was as strong as a punch in the stomach, a swirling bluish-black mixture of hurt, disappointment and shame, interlaced with glowing embers of anger. At first her mouth worked soundlessly, then she choked out, "You bastard, Rico!"

Dredd gave her a smile that looked more like a sneer. "Always, love. Always."

White flashes of disbelief, mirrored on her face. Then the anger strengthened, and she raised her hand –

Anderson reacted instinctively. Lunging forward, she intercepted and deflected the woman's blow by finger-jabbing with her left, already turning to deliver a right hook to her cheek. The impact, though not particularly forceful by Anderson's standards, made the woman stagger backwards, holding her cheek in disbelief. "You... you..." And then she turned and ran, her skirt flapping about her legs.

"Or we could do it that way," Spikes commented. "All things considered, Judgey boy, good thinking with the cruelty, but I like her way better."

Anderson found she was still in combat stance and quickly lowered her arms. A few people were looking at her, but turned to move on when Dredd glared at them. Did he think she had reacted prematurely, and unwisely? From what she sensed around him, it certainly seemed that way. Avoiding his gaze, she felt her cheeks grow hot. "She was going to hit you," she mumbled.

"C'mon," he simply said, nudging her shoulder. "Let's get out of here." He had pulled his hood further into his face, she noticed. As they started moving again, he set a brisk pace.

"Alright," Patton spoke up, "what the fuck did I just witness here?"

"Easy," Spikes answered cheerfully. "That was his brother's ex. Or rather, one of several exes."

"You mean your brother was... dating?" The frown was audible in Patton's voice. Apparently he knew about Rico, or at least he presumed that Rico had been a Judge. Was she the only one, Anderson wondered, who had not known Dredd had – or had had – a brother?

Dredd gave a snort. "I believe the term is _screwing around_."

"You could simply have told her you're not him," Patton pointed out.

"She didn't know about me," Dredd said. "Do you really think she would have believed it? That's awfully convenient, when you don't want to acknowledge you know someone, you just tell him you're your own twin. Better have her so angry with my brother she won't want to talk to him any further."

"How do you know she doesn't know you exist?" Patton insisted. "He might have mentioned you."

Dredd did not answer immediately, and for a moment he surprised Anderson by radiating a certain sense of... awkwardness. "Don't ask," he finally said.

It took her a moment to understand the implication, but then she would not have needed the punk's wolf-whistle. "Why, you naughty boy," Spikes snickered. "You naughty, naughty boy."

"Shut up, Spikes."

But Spikes was still snickering. "Did Rico know about it? No, wait, he arranged it, right?"

"I said shut up!" Dredd snarled, and Spikes grimaced and fell silent. He accelerated his pace further, and Anderson almost had to jog to keep up. Dredd committing an actual breach of regulations? Of course, this was a fairly frequent breach, as far as she knew, at the Academy already. To be honest, she had not been supposed to make out with Larry Kensington in the maintenance closet either, strictly speaking. And she knew of several fellow cadets who had carried such involvements quite a bit further; as a psychic, one sometimes learned things one would rather not know. Then again, the regulations forbade _relationships of a romantic nature_, which, technically speaking, did not include casual involvement... or did it? She could ask Dredd about it, of course, but it would give him the wrong impression, either that she was taking undue interest in his private life, or, even worse, that she was carrying on an affair herself or was intending to have one, so she decided not to ask. Maybe Hershey would answer the question for her once they got back. If she dared to ask, that was.

The entrance into the part of town surrounded by the makeshift palisade was guarded by three hulking men dressed in worn leather. As they approached, one of the men moved to bar their way, but Spikes stepped forward and greeted him by name, and the man stood back and let them pass, yet not without a very suspicious look at the punk's companions. His hand, huge and hairy, rested on the gun tucked through his belt, and suspicion prickled Anderson's awareness like the brambles in the Academy's practice park.

Inside, the houses seemed somewhat larger, though not much, and in better repair. However, after just a few minutes of walking – Spikes had taken the lead now – they passed by anther burned-out ruin. Ragged men were shifting through the rubble, and in front of an empty doorway left standing like a grotesque reminder of what had once been, a small girl sat in the dust and played with pebbles. An elderly couple passed them by, ostentatiously ignoring them.

Further ahead there was a similar place, only that this time it was completely desolated. And shortly after they passed another such ruin, as blackened and burned as the rest, but where its entrance must have been, a pair of wooden crosses stood, and what hung on those crosses, or partially lay below them... Up close the stench made Anderson's stomach churn. Behind her, Patton made a choking sound. Spikes kept his gaze to the front, his mouth thinning to a line. Only Dredd showed any semblance of calm as he studied the gruesome display as casually as one might study the landscape.

What the hell was wrong with this place?

"When were you here last?" Dredd asked Spikes quietly when they were past the burned house. Anderson did not need to reach out to his mind to know he was feeling the same way she did.

"A year ago," Spikes replied. "I think it's gotten worse."

"And you couldn't tell me beforehand," Dredd observed flatly. "What did you leave out?"

Spikes practically fidgeted while walking. "Look, I'm sorry. I had no idea they would go this far." He kept his voice down; Patton and Anderson had to crowd in close to understand him. "There's some kind of sect in town. With pretty strict ideas about what's right and what's wrong. Oh, look, Stacy's is up ahead!"

"Right, listen," Dredd growled, not breaking stride, "we'll get what we need, and then we get the fuck out of here. Got it?"

Spikes nodded eagerly; Anderson doubted the punk had any desire to stay here any longer than necessary, not anymore.

The repair shop was a dim hall that smelled of burned plastic and motor oil. A handful of men in work jackets or overalls were busy hoisting an old jeep up on a crane, and another man and a red-haired woman –Stacy? – were working on a small crawler vehicle painted dark green. Everywhere spare machine parts were piled up, some of them rusty, some looking new and freshly polished. In a corner, a lanky boy was replacing a wheel on a motor bike.

"Hey there, Stace," Spikes called out, and for a moment everybody stopped their work to turn around and eye the new arrivals. Most did not waste much time, though.

Contrary to Anderson's expectations, it was not the red-haired woman who reacted to Spikes's hail; she merely looked up and then returned to her work. One of the men operating the crane smiled and waved at them, though. After speaking a few words to another, an overall-clad giant of a man, he came over to meet them, pulling off his greasy gloves and tucking them into his tool belt. "Spikes Harvey Rotten, the wandering punk. What a pleasant surprise." Probably in his early forties, he had a lean, sun-dark face that strongly contrasted with his bright eyes.

"Stacy. Good to see you." Spikes shook the proffered hand. "How's business?"

"Oh, I can't complain," the man replied. "Not about business, anyway." His eyes flickered toward the entrance briefly. "The situation around here, though... One has to tread carefully. They wouldn't trouble _me_, of course, not the one running the only proper repair shop in town. You, though... take my advice, Harvey, old boy, and be careful." He briefly mustered Spikes's companions, and Anderson detected more of the suspicion that dominated the entire town's atmosphere, though in his case it was more bristles than thorns.

"Sure thing, Stace. I just need some stuff, and then we're outta here." He gestured to Patton, who smoothly stepped forward with a data pad.

The shop owner studied what he saw on the screen, then nodded. "The quatt lock is no problem. I've got every single model from the XF series, from 9 to 9000. The axle... Well, to be honest, I've never seen that one. I can offer you a Starburst axle, if that's any help, either the SF 12 or an SE, from what it looks like, or maybe you could make it work with one of the older Gronigen 400, depending on the hanging grip. What kind of vehicle is she, exactly?"

"An adapted Scania 360," Patton replied, after a glance at Dredd. "I think I'd prefer the XF 900, I find it the most reliable, in my own experience. And do you have the Starburst ST 7, by any chance?"

The man raised his eyebrows at him. "Then you're not running her with the original Scania crawlers, right? What did you put on her, Nelson ones? They fit, and they're perfect for desert terrain, but their links are more vulnerable. Fickle things. I don't really use them myself, not if I can avoid it."

It was the first time Anderson had seen Patton actually beam at someone. "Have you ever considered living in the city? I could get you a job with the Hall of Justice, Tek Division."

Stacy gave him a brief look of astonishment that was quickly replaced with his previous frown. "So that's who you are, then. Explains a custom vehicle." He worried his lower lip between his teeth, still looking at the pad. Finally he said, "Normally I would tell you my place is here... but with the way things are around here at the moment... I might just take you up on the offer, eventually. So, what _did_ you put on her?"

Patton grinned like a proud schoolboy. "Y-Split Radons."

In reaction, the shop owner's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline abruptly. "You don't say!"

"I guess he's made a friend," Dredd murmured to Anderson as Stacy led Patton towards the back, with Spikes trailing behind, seemingly forgotten, while the other two discussed technical detail Anderson had never even heard of. While they had been talking, he had taken his hood off at last.

Anderson smiled at their retreating backs. She never had been able to muster much enthusiasm for technology; the related subjects had been her weakest. But she found it amusing how some men – and women, on occasion – would practically worship a vehicle if it could crush another or fire rockets. "Should we ask him about the situation here?"

Dredd gave a small growl that probably signified mild disapproval. "I was about to, just before they fell in love and left us here." Outwardly calm, Anderson still recognised the almost imperceptible flicker of unease about him, something she had detected during their long day and night in Peach Trees already. "I could do with some fresh air. How about –"

"Sir," Anderson interrupted, quickly and quietly, "I think _she_ will talk to you."

He did not turn and look around, just as Anderson had expected, but his eyes flickered from side to side, and he promptly spotted the red-haired woman approaching them hesitatingly. "Ah. Tell me about her."

He was putting some trust in her abilities, Anderson noted with pride. Reaching out to make sure the fleeting sense she had gotten earlier on was correct, she hastily informed him, "Her name is Becca… Rebecca Stevens, that is. She seems to have worked here for a while, but she's not from around here. She's curious about us, seems pretty sure we're not locals, either. She..." Oh well. "She would like to..." Not something one told a superior officer frequently. "Since she thinks the selection of men is limited here, what with most of them being uncouth brutes, to quote her, she'd like to get to know you. She finds you, again to quote her, reasonably attractive, at least from a distance." The way his eyebrows rose a fraction was rather amusing. "I guess I'll leave you two alone, then. Just a tip: She's hoping you work out." Had she just teased a superior officer?

"Don't go too far," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth as she turned to go, "not on your own!"

"I won't," she promised. The woman was fairly close already, and she approached her directly. "Excuse me, could you perhaps point me to the bathroom?"

* * *

Dredd crossed his arms, pretended to watch three men hauling an entire engine block across the hall and acted as if he had not even noticed the young woman with the curly red hair. He might have to flirt, he presumed, though he would try a more matter-of-fact approach first; he had very little practice with flirting, and even less patience for it.

"Hi," the girl said, a little hesitantly, as it sounded to him.

He turned to face her and gave her a little smile. It felt somewhat unnatural, smiling at someone he did not know, and for no reason in particular. "Hi," he answered. "You're the only girl who works here, then? I like girls who are good with that kind of stuff." Too direct, perhaps? Damn it, he should have made Anderson talk to her!

She cocked her head sideways and smiled up at him; there were dimples in her cheeks. Up close, her face was sweaty and a little grimy, as was her dark green overall, and even cleaned up she would not be a great beauty, but she looked... cute. That was the word, probably. "I get a break at midday, for an hour. Would you care to go for a drink?"

Not too direct after all, then. "If we're still here then. You'd be worth staying for a little while," he added when she looked disappointed, and she brightened visibly. "Say, I've been here years ago," he lied, "and it looked very peaceful back then. Is it just me, or is something wrong with people here?" Not the most subtle approach, he chided himself. But he was used to questioning people, not to carefully worming out hints and fitting them together.

For a moment she closed her eyes and shook her head. "It's... complicated," she said. "There's this man... they call him the Lawgiver. He's the leader of a sect. At first it was just a small movement, and we thought they were decent and all, helping those who needed it, that kind of thing. But then they grew, until... I couldn't say when they switched from righteous to self-righteous. But that was when he emerged. The Lawgiver. Before we knew it, he had taken over the place, he and his mob. He singles out the sinners, and he... he calls the Devil's Lapdogs down upon them." She shivered and would say no more.

"The Devil's Lapdogs," Dredd repeated. So this town was run by a madman. That explained the burned houses and the mangled remains displayed publicly. But to him, there was only one Lawgiver, and that was the weapon he had left behind with Gradgrind. Instead he carried a smaller pistol now, hidden at his side, beneath his shirt and the loose folds of his vest. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"They come at night," she whispered, not looking at him. "When the sirens sound, we know they're here. They come at night, and they kill."

Dredd very nearly snorted. What a nice bedtime story to scare children! From the way she spoke, the girl did not seem a fool. Why would she believe something like that? "What are they?" he insisted. "Where do they come from?" If they had been there before, he was fairly sure Spikes would have told him. It was just the kind of story Spikes would tell. "Who calls them?" He tended to assume they were not real at all, but if they were, then their appearance was awfully convenient for this religious madman the girl had just mentioned.

She looked up at him then, out of wide blue eyes. "God sent them, as a punishment for our sins. So the Lawgiver says."

This time Dredd really snorted. "Religious nutjobs say lots of things. Doesn't make them true."

The girl smiled hesitantly. "I guess so." But Dredd did not need Anderson's mind-reading skills to know she was unconvinced. "So, are you –"

But Dredd had no chance to learn what she was about to ask, for suddenly the doors were pushed open, and in streamed a horde of men, interspersed with a handful of women, most of them armed with knives or cudgels, some of them even with a pistol or rifle, and headed straight for him. With a gasp, the red-haired girl took a step backwards, then froze, staring at the approaching mob wide-eyed. Behind him, Dredd could hear one of the workers crying out, and another one calling the owner's name, but he could not afford to take his eyes off the potential enemies now.

The horde stopped a few steps away from him, with the foremost row forming a semi-circle facing him. There were around thirty of them, he estimated. Too many. One man stepped forward; Dredd thought to recognise one of the men who had stood guard at the entrance to the fortified part of Deliverance. "Rico Dredd?" he asked in a low drawl.

From the rabble, the woman Sandra emerged, wearing a red, swollen spot on her left cheek and a content smirk. "Yes, that's him."

"In this case," the man drawled, "you are under arrest for lewd and sinful behaviour."


	5. Judgement

_**Author's Note:**_  
_That took a little longer than intended, and I had to split it up into two chapters to avoid one gigantic monster chapter._ _I'm not entirely happy with that split, but you might be, since it means you get an earlier update._  
_As always, a bit of feedback would be appreciated. Praise, complaints, lame puns, marriage offers, insults, bribes, threats, whatever. Just one line will do. Remember, motivate the author with reviews, and he works hard to get the conclusion to the Deliverance adventure to you sooner._.. ;-)

* * *

**5. Judgement**

Their sudden presence made Anderson jump. Enemies. Her first instinct was to rush out of her hiding place behind a stack of supply boxes, to Dredd's side, to face what she saw but as an approaching wall of smouldering red with him, yet she stopped herself just in time. She had to warn Patton first. And maybe Stacy could do something about this, maybe... She slipped out from behind the boxes and backed through the half-open slide door to the storeroom, her eyes on the newcomers. As she retreated, she hastily counted them and checked for weapons, as far as she could see that from the very back of the hall. Twenty-eight, and mostly armed. What did they want? She could feel their malevolence, even from this distance it was quite tangible to her, and she could just make out Dredd, too, his iron control poised like a spring, ready to fight... She had to hurry.

She almost collided with Spikes as she slipped into the storeroom backwards. "What's going on?" he whispered urgently.

"I have no idea," she confessed. "But there are those people..."

"It's them," Stacy growled. He gestured to a screen on the wall that showed the entrance of the montage hall – which answered Anderson's question how they had known already that something was happening. "Goddammit, they have no business in here!"

Just then one of the workers came rushing in, a tall, thin man in an overlarge work jacket. "Stace," he panted, "there's trouble!"

"I know," the repair shop owner replied, glaring at the screen. They were seizing Dredd, like a prisoner! "And too many to simply throw them out!"

Anderson's mind was turning somersaults. What was she to do? What could she do? She had to help him! But twenty-eight people were too many to put her powers to good use against them, and the knife did not do her much good, either. And Patton and Spikes were not even armed! The decision was made in a heartbeat. "Get out of here, you two," she commanded. "As fast as you can. Then bring the Landraider back. How long to fix that crawler?"

Patton stood transfixed, watching the screen, but when she addressed him, he tore his gaze away. "With those parts? Half an hour, if Gradgrind and the bot help me."

"A lot less than that," Stacy broke in, "if you've got Mike here to help you." His frown creased his forehead more deeply than ever; his fury practically made the air around him simmer. "Mike, go with them. This is your chance to get revenge for your cousin. You'll be bringing back quite some firepower."

The thin man nodded grimly. "Anything to hurt this scum."

"What about you?" Patton demanded of Anderson, while Spikes was already ushering him towards the back door.

"I'm staying," she simply said. "Hurry!"

Stacy gripped her jacket sleeve, just as the back door fell shut behind the three men. The gaze of his blue eyes was steady, and he appeared outwardly calm, but inside he was boiling. "I think I know what you're about to do," he said urgently. "Don't. This is not the time. I know how this works. They'll drag him off to their church for trial, and then they'll lock him up 'til tonight. If you try to free him now, you'll only do him harm, girl. But if we strike later, we can do it. Trust me on this."

He waited until she nodded with letting go of her sleeve. How had he known, she wondered, had she been so easy to see through?

Stacy was watching her, she noticed, with those bright eyes of his. She could not read his expression, but she could read what lay in his mind: anger, but also a touch of compassion. _Poor girl, she must be so scared for her sweetheart. Poor, brave girl._

Anderson felt the heat rush into her cheeks. "He's my superior officer," she tried to explain. The man knew they were Hall of Justice employees anyway. "He's... a _good_ superior officer." A hero, she had been about to say, but it sounded so silly when spoken aloud.

* * *

Dredd could have knocked his head against the wall. He had let himself be taken by surprise, and it annoyed him to no end. He should have been more careful. He should have known.

But then again, nobody could possibly have expected a mob of nearly thirty armed men and women targeting him specifically. Meeting that Sandra had been sheer bad luck. Maybe he could have dealt with her differently – he would have, had he known the consequences beforehand – but it might not have helped either. What else should he have done, spent some time with her? It might not have appeased her. Also, the idea evoked shamefully pleasant memories, which he pushed out of his mind decidedly. Now was not the time.

Damn her! She had not even been Rico's girlfriend, or anything of the like! Dredd knew for a fact that his brother had paid her, and that she had been a fairly well-earning escort girl back then. And she certainly had not conveyed the impression that she had harboured any deeper feelings for Rico; mistaking Dredd for his brother, she had even called him a bastard and a rogue, and it had not precisely sounded like terms of endearment. What had possessed the woman now to act that way? Had she loved Rico after all? Had he made any promises to her?

Would he have spent that night with her, he wondered, had he known that she cared for his brother? She was just a whore, Rico had said, just a whore and booked for the night, and he had been given a nightshift on short notice. "Go on, Joey," Rico had said, "let's not waste it, go and have some fun." Of course he had hesitated, and of course he had had a bad conscience, especially about impersonating his brother, but since they had considered themselves practically the same person back then, as Rico had pointed out, and since he had been little more than a teenage boy fresh out of the Academy and shamefully eager for a closer encounter with a woman, he had been unable to resist in the end.

So of course he had remembered her name. After all, she was the only woman he had ever slept with. But scaring her off like that had seemed the best idea that had come to his mind, after his initial surprise to see her, and that she recognised his face after all these years. Apparently it had not been a good idea, as it turned out.

Rico might have simply lured her into a dark shed and killed her. It would certainly have solved the problem, but he was not Rico.

_Yes_, a nasty little voice whispered in the dark recesses of his mind, _you very much are. Otherwise you would not have thought of this in the first place. Lure her into a secluded corner, have your way with her, then finish her as soon as you're done with her, when her guard's down. Admit it, it does have some appeal to you. The only thing that separates you from your brother is the conditioning that he for some reason rejected._

The conditioning. He liked to believe that he was who he was by his own free choice, but the truth was that it had been force-fed into his brain in the cloning tank, a conditioning to abide by the law. He embraced it, lived by it, clung to it, because it was the only difference between him and his brother, the barrier that kept his darker nature in check. And yet, at times, he felt that this barrier was paper-thin, that the part of him he pushed down might yet surface and tear through it like a ravenous beast. At times he was afraid of himself.

Rico would have laughed.

But this was not the time for brooding. For what felt like the hundredth time, Dredd cast a look around the room they had locked him up in, little more than a square cabinet, windowless and empty, each side measuring approximately ten feet. The door was made of metal and massive. There was no way out.

They had been very careful with him; apparently Sandra had greatly exaggerated his brother's combat skills. With his wrists tied behind his back and no less than five firearms trained at him, they had marched him down the street, straight into a hulking building that, judging from the tower, was supposed to be a church. There he had been thoroughly searched – at least he had managed to break a woman's nose and knock one man's front teeth out in the course, but they had taken both gun and knife from him – then pushed into this tiny side room, with the suggestion to think on his sins.

Grimacing, he wriggled his right hand again. Almost free. Almost. The rope cut into the back of his hand, and his thumb was starting to feel unpleasantly numb.

The others must have made it out of town by now, and he was sure they would come back for him, but he wanted to meet them as a free man, not as a damsel in distress waiting for rescue. He felt foolish enough already for having been brought here as a prisoner in the first place. Hopefully they were unharmed. Sandra had clamoured for the capture of Anderson, but luckily the majority of his captors had not been particularly interested in a suspect they could not put their hands on.

Just a bit more now, just a tiny little bit... He yanked his right hand upwards behind his back, hissing through his teeth as the taut rope bit into his thumb, but then his hands were free. He moved his fingers, glad that he had not temporarily lost the feeling in them.

He heard the lock click and approached the door warily, his hands behind his back once more. Now it all depended on whether he managed to overpower whoever was coming for him.

The door swung open, but nobody stepped in. Instead a deep male voice called from outside, "Come out slowly, mister. No monkey business."

Monkey business? Dredd walked through the door, just as the speaker, a large, fat man in a shirt that was too small for him, peered around it to see if he was complying. The pistol in his hand was pointed at him, as was the rifle the man standing several steps further back was holding. There were four more men in the background, but none of them seemed to have a gun. Very well, I'll show you monkey business. He lunged at the fat man's wrist, his fingers closing around the other's hand, pressing them to the weapon painfully. The man cried out, and he gripped his arm with the other hand and yanked it forward, while he kicked his fat belly as hard as he could. Grunting, the man collapsed in a heap, moaning and holding his stomach, but Dredd had fired his gun already, into the rifleman's shoulder. With a howl, the other guard dropped his weapon and fell down to one knee, clutching his shoulder. "It's Judge, not mister," Dredd snarled. "Hands up, the lot of you!"

"Think again, Rico," a voice from behind him said, strangely gentle and soothing, even while the four men in front of him were starting to raise their hands slowly. "There are three rifles trained at you from the balcony behind you. Are you really fast enough to kill three men before they kill you? I suggest you drop the gun, then put your hands behind your head."

Dredd turned around slowly. The church was a fairly small building, really, a faceless, shapeless hall with benches down its length, but there was a gallery leading almost around the interior's circumference, with a rail made of metal plates with narrow gaps inbetween. He spotted a rifle's muzzle peeking out through one of those gaps straight away, and a quick glance around revealed another one of a smaller calibre pointed at him from opposite the first. He could not find the last, but he tended to believe it was there.

His reputation might say one thing about him, but reality spoke differently. The likelihood of him taking out three snipers, no matter if they were skilled or not, before one of them managed to shoot him in turn was rather small, especially if they were positioned far apart and had fairly good cover. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he dropped his newly acquired weapon and did as he had been told, interlacing his fingers behind his head. At least this pose allowed him a certain attitude of nonchalance. He also turned around slowly to regard the speaker.

The man and his escort of cudgel-armed brutes must have come out from the door almost hidden behind the crude altar, a monstrosity of stone that featured an artwork, if one would call it thus, that probably depicted Jesus crucified, judging from what Dredd knew of the legends of Christianity. The figure was pale against a murky background and strangely twisted, nails drawing blood from its torn skin, a glow around its head that threw the face into stark contrasts of black and yellowish-white, the mouth a frozen rictus of laughing madly through agony. It really was quite an unsettling picture. But what drew Dredd's eyes away from it immediately was the one man flanked by the others, the one who must have spoken to him before and called him Rico. Swathed in a simple robe of coarse brown wool held together by a length of rope, he appeared ragged even by this town's standards, and to match his garb, his hair, black heavily streaked with grey, hung about his head in wild tangles, seamlessly merging into a bushy beard that fanned out across his chest. Little of his face was left visible by this mass of hair, and what could be seen was gaunt, the eyes deep in their sockets. A thin arm protruded from one sleeve, clutching a tall staff of gnarled wood – a rare material, out here – topped with what looked like the skull of a large rodent on a cross. It was a figure that seemed to have stepped right out of a work of fiction, a grotesque caricature of a half-mad hermit... only that he was very real.

The Lawgiver – for Dredd had no doubt that this must be the leader of this town's cult – approached him slowly, eyeing him like a rare specimen at the zoo. "You stand before your God now, Rico," he said in his strangely gentle voice. "Are you ready to confess your sins?" At a distance of about five paces he stopped, and so did the men who accompanied him, none of them taking their eyes off Dredd for a moment.

Dredd glanced at the horrid altar painting. "Your god, not mine." Looks like some perverse mutant god, judging from that picture. "Why are you detaining me? I've committed no crime in this town. And even if you had proof of anything I did somewhere else, you have no jurisdiction for it."

The cult leader drew himself up, a lean shape in a robe too large for him. But when he spoke, there was nothing comical about him. "To God, there is no such thing as borders, and jurisdiction." His voice sounded full and strong. "We all belong to Him, and He may judge us whenever and wherever He sees fit."

Religious nutjob, indeed. "He, maybe. Not you. Now let me go, and I'll leave this place straight away and never come back."

Extending his staff towards him, the Lawgiver proclaimed what Dredd had expected: "I do the Lord's work, sinner. I am his humble servant."

As they taught at the Academy, there was no reasoning with madmen. Still Dredd attempted a different approach. "You can't even prove who I am, can you? All you have is the word of one person. Might I add, she doesn't look like a reliable source to me, nor like a woman without sin herself."

To his surprise, the Lawgiver inclined his head. "Bring in the witness."

Obedient to his word, one of the men at his side, a lanky youth in torn jeans and nothing else, with his fair hair cut short, hastened towards a side door opposite the one where Dredd had been kept and pulled it open, and immediately Sandra appeared, with a man and a woman holding each of her arms. Apparently the Lawgiver and his acolytes agreed with Dredd about her not being without sin, he noticed, for in addition to the bruise on her left cheek Anderson had given her, she had a matching one on her right, and one eye was nearly swollen shut. It also seemed to Dredd that she was limping and might have had trouble staying upright if not for the pair dragging her along.

It served her right.

"Tell me," the Lawgiver addressed her, his voice once again so strangely gentle, "is there any sign, any unique mark, by which you could identify this man without doubt? I am told he carried no papers to name him."

Sandra raised her head to squint malevolently at Dredd, who gave her a flat stare. "Yes," she replied, her tone a little unsteady, yet nonetheless convinced. "He has a few scars, none too prominent... except that one... from an old gunshot wound. Middle of his stomach, a bit to the right."

The cult leader motioned with one hand, and three of the men escorting him approached Dredd cautiously. One drew a gun from inside his vest and pointed it at Dredd's head, one positioned himself two paces away with a long knife – he could have disarmed and wounded or killed that one with relative ease, then used his body as a shield against the first, if not for those accursed gunmen on the gallery – and one came to tuck up the hem of his shirt. Dredd sneered at him. "You see? No old scar there."

But the man, a hulking figure quite a bit taller than he was, nodded in grim satisfaction. "Yep. Gunshot."

Oh, damn. He had completely forgotten about his recent injury. "That's a new one, you moron," he informed him. "Anyone with at least a hint of medical knowledge here?"

The big brute seized him around the middle with one arm, picked him up with disturbing ease and turned him to face two more men coming towards them. Once more his shirt was pulled up, and one poked at the reddened skin with a finger. "Nah, that ain't new," he decided, after sucking on his lower lip for a moment. "Healed way good, that is."

"I come from Mega-City One!" Dredd protested. "Don't you think we have high standards of medical care? That was an armour-piercing round, a clean blow-through. Hell, when that one's old, you won't see it anymore!"

"Liar," the other one decided. "It's that gunshot scar alright."

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Apparently the level of health care available to people here was far beneath what a Judge took for granted. Of course, many of the inhabitants of Mega-City One had little to no access to good medical treatment as well, but at least they should know his injury for a recent one.

"So that is settled," the Lawgiver decreed. "Scribe!"

A rail-thin little man scurried to his leader's side, notepad and pencil in hand. Apparently everything was done the old-fashioned way here. "Can I have your name again?" he asked in a surprisingly deep voice.

"It's Rico Dredd," Sandra supplied eagerly, probably hoping she would be set free if she cooperated. Dredd was not so sure about this himself. "With two D's at the end."

The thin man started scribbling. "Like the other word for fear, only with two D's?"

"No A," Dredd corrected him wearily. Wherever he had to give his name, it always was the same question – except when he was in uniform, of course, then he could simply point at his badge. "And technically that's three D's," he added, just to confuse the man. "In case you're trying to think of a lame pun now, stow it. I've heard them all."

"Alright, alright," the scribe muttered. "It's D-R-E-D-D, then? And Rico with a C?"

"If you always work at that speed, we're still gonna be here next week." His arms were starting to tire; no wonder, since just a short time ago he had been digging a ramp in the sand with a shovel that was far too small and short for his taste. "Just tell me what you think I did, I'll tell you I didn't do it, and even if I did, you couldn't prove it, and then you let me go, how's that?" If any supposed criminal dared to speak to him in that way, he usually punched him in the face to make him see reason. It made him want to laugh.

"Contempt for the law," the cult leader observed. "That indicates your guilt, sinner."

"I'm a Judge, goddammit!" Dredd snarled. He was so sick of this farce. First he got sent on a strange mission – necessary, certainly, but still strange –, then their transport broke down for no good reason, and now he had to stand trial before a makeshift court of religious lunatics! "I _live_ for the law!"

"He who uses the name of the Lord in vain shall be punished," the Lawgiver proclaimed. "Think on your sins, Rico Dredd, and then confess, and maybe in his mercy the Lord will send your immortal soul to the purgatory instead of hell."

"Hell, where self-righteous creeps like you go, you mean?" Dredd retorted angrily. "If there is a God, I'm pretty sure he prefers the likes of me to the likes of you." It wasn't the wisest thing to say in this situation, but he no longer cared. All he had to do was waste time, until his companions came for him. They might just ride the Killdozer into town. Now wouldn't that be fun...

"Silence!" the madman thundered, on top of his followers' cries of, "Blasphemy!" Pointing his staff at Dredd, he announced, "We will now hear the witness tell us of this sinner's crimes."

Sandra stepped forward shakily, but avoided Dredd's eyes. "Rico seduced me," she started straight away. "He used me, then abandoned me, and I never heard from him again. But while I was... while he kept me with him, he..." She cleared her throat, and her voice steadied. "He drank. He smoked. He used illegal substances."

"Objection," Dredd interrupted sharply. His arms were really getting sore by now. "That's vastly exaggerated." His brother had paid the girl, after all. And while Rico had not been a stranger to alcoholic beverages, despite regulations, Dredd knew for a fact that his twin had neither smoked nor taken narcotics.

"The accused will be silent," the Lawgiver repeated. "Continue, wench."

Wench. In any other situation, this would have been funny.

"And he murdered." Sandra was looking at him now, her swollen features a malicious grimace. "He went down to the undercity to gun down its people. He hunted them down and killed them."

"I did my job," Dredd said simply. What she was referring to was true, more or less, though; it had even been part of Rico's trial before the Hall of Justice's court, but had been dropped since it was insignificant next to Rico's other transgressions. After all, what was occasionally killing mutants who illegally nested in the city's bowels and catacombs, compared to extortion and murder? He could have added a few things the Hall of Justice had never learned about, some he suspected and some he knew with certainty. "Those are mutants we're talking about. Aren't they the devil's creatures to you, or something like that?"

The Lawgiver regarded him with those deep-set eyes, and Dredd had the feeling that there was an unsteady flicker in them. "Yes, Rico, they are the devil's creatures. Just like you."

"Like me? If that's the only witness you can produce, you hardly have much against me." His fingers were getting moist with sweat; he would have liked to wipe them on his shirt.

"Bring in the other woman," the Lawgiver commanded, then turned his gaze on Sandra. "You say he came here in company?"

"With two men, and with his current hussy," she spat. "Cassie, he called her."

"Judge not, lest ye be judged yourself," the cult leader quoted at her. "We will find her and decide on her guilt."

"Tell me," Dredd could not resist interjecting, "do _you_ live by that rule?" It was the thing Rico would have said.

He wondered what Rico would say if he could see him now. Laugh, most likely. And then shoot the Lawgiver at point blank, with some witty comment.

"You condemn yourself with every word you utter." This time, the madman's voice actually carried a hint of sadness. "Where are your friends now?"

"Beyond your reach," Dredd replied. And hopefully they would not take too long with coming back. At the moment, he saw no good chance to escape. There were guns pointing at him; he could see two on the balcony from the corner of his eye, and one of the henchmen nearby had not lowered his weapon yet. From the occasional shuffling of feet behind him, he knew for a fact that he was surrounded, and while he normally could simply push someone aside, or, even better, into another pointing a weapon at him, and make a quick dash for cover, there was little cover to be had in this church. Weren't churches supposed to have rows and rows of benches?, it shot through his head.

The lanky young man had gone to the side door again and returned with some more ragged fellows now, leading a red-haired woman in an overall between them. The girl from the repair shop, Becca! When had they taken her? At least she seemed unharmed, though she was shivering as if from cold.

"Is this the woman you speak of?" the Lawgiver inquired. "This Cassie?"

"No," Sandra said, "this was the one he was with when he was arrested."

"_Talking_ to," Dredd put in quickly. "I had only just met her. Hell, I don't even know her name!" He did, of course, but only because Anderson had told him.

"Has she shared your bed?" the cult leader demanded.

That man was truly mad! "No, obviously. I don't keep a bed at her workplace. Should I?"

Among the followers an angry mutter arose, and at least those Dredd could see were glaring at him. Maybe they had better glare at their leader for asking such an idiotic question, he thought angrily. But the Lawgiver himself did not react to his provocation at all this time. Instead he conferred with the men around him about Becca's identity. Two of them were confirming that yes, she worked for Stacy Fredriksen in his repair shop. They seemed unclear on whether or not she should be classified as a sinner, though. The skinny little man with pad and pencil stood by attentively, his pencil poised, and Dredd wondered what his actual function was. Until now, he had hardly written anything down, apparently.

At last they decided to question Becca, and the girl was escorted back to the room where they had kept her. Feigning a lack of interest, Dredd nonetheless made sure to see where they were taking her; he would have to get her out again, after all. He felt bad about dragging her into this, even though it was not his fault she was here.

"Tell me one more thing, Rico," the Lawgiver addressed him once more. "Are you ready to repent your sins?"

In reply, Dredd gave him a sneer Rico would have been proud of. "Are you ready to repent yours?"

"Then it is decided." The Lawgiver knocked the butt of his staff on the stone floor forcefully three times, and all the murmurs subsided. "Rico Dredd, you will be given to the Devil's Lapdogs. May the Lord have mercy on your black soul."

On the up side, Dredd thought grimly as he was marched back to his makeshift cell, he had a chance to find out now if that story contained any truth.

* * *

Andrin Tobler yawned hugely, and his twin Thiago promptly mirrored him, despite facing away from him. Andrin was seated in the cockpit, while Thiago lazed at the tactical table that formed the centre of the Landraider's sitting area, and they both were studying for their upcoming Civil Law exam. As usual, they had divided up the sub-chapters among themselves; Thiago had been lucky when he had drawn Property, Obligations and Succession, leaving Andrin with Family Law, which he disliked, and Procedural Law, which he loathed with some passion. It was only fair, Andrin had to admit; for Criminal Law last term Thiago had been stuck with the majority of the procedural part – but then again, Criminal Law had much less procedural aspects than Civil Law encompassed.

_I'm bored_, Thiago informed him for what must be at least the tenth time.

_And I'm trying to memorise types of pleas, so shut up_, Andrin thought back fiercely. _I fucking hate this!_

_Same here._

_Yeah, but you don't have to bother with Procedure. You'll just write down what I tell you at the exam. _Andrin sighed and closed his book with a snap._ I'm never gonna work Block Court, _he promised._ Never, never ever._

_Again, same here. Civil Law sucks._

_Totally. _Andrin let his eyes slide shut for a moment. He wondered what Dredd, Anderson and the others were doing at the moment._ Is Gradgrind still watching us?_

_Nope, _Thiago replied,_ he's gone over into the Killdozer. Again._

Andrin glanced at the side panel. _Hatch's opening. He's coming back. _He was dimly aware of his twin sitting up straight and stretching his limbs, all the while facing the narrow corridor between the bunks from which Gradgrind was to emerge. At this distance, he knew anything Thiago did, like an echo from his own nerves. When they stood beside each other, he was aware of every thought his brother harboured, every tiny sensation he experienced. And when they lay crammed together in the same bunk, they became one, one mind living in two bodies at once. As he had woken up from voices outside their bunk this morning and sat up, there had been a fraction of a second in which he could not have said whether he was Andrin or Thiago.

Striding down the length of the Landraider, Gradgrind bellowed, "Eyes on the readouts, cadet! We've got company!"

Andrin leapt to his feet at once, and he felt Thiago mirroring him only a tiny moment later. The Judge was right; the small radar screen directly below the internal panel, the one on which he had seen the hatch opening, showed two dots approaching fast. "It's our bikes," he announced after squinting at the bottom line of the screen. "Signature's a match."

"Be wary all the same," Gradgrind said gruffly. "That way you'll never be fooled."

"Yes, sir." Andrin peered out the side window. "Look, I can see them! Wait, I think there's people missing!"

Just then the speaker system crackled. "Patton to Landraider, come in."

Gradgrind nudged Andrin aside and responded. "Landraider to Patton. We hear you."

On the other side, Patton amazed the twins by dropping his usually so very correct manner. "Gradgrind, lower the ramp and ready the robot, there's no time to lose. Dredd's been taken. Explain later. Patton out."

Gradgrind merely raised his eyebrows at this blatant ignoring of hierarchy. "Cadets, stay here and don't get in the way." Then he hurried back into the Killdozer.

"You know," Thiago said after a few seconds' silence, "I think he could have worked the ramp from here."

Andrin grinned. _You wanna go tell him?_

Sharing his grin, Thiago shook his head decidedly.

* * *

"So," Spikes said cheerfully, "let's march!"

"Slow down," Anderson protested. "That's a crazy plan! We could get them hurt, or even killed, instead of rescuing them!"

"Well, we won't," Spikes insisted. "Right, Stace?"

Stacy Fredriksen was still wearing his permanent frown. "It _is_ risky," he conceded. "But I think it's the best chance we've got. Still," he shot a quick glance at Anderson here, "we should wait for confirmation your friends are in range before we start."

Anderson cast a look around at the others assembled in the repair shop's office room, sitting on the few chairs, the desk or on the floor. Most of Stacy's employees, and a handful of men and women they had brought in, altogether a small army of seventeen, counting her and Spikes. It was not much, but it was a start, at least until their reinforcements arrived. All she would have to do now was keep Spikes from doing something stupid. While the decision to let Patton go on alone and unhindered with the mechanic had certainly not been wrong, Anderson had read in his mind that he had mostly stayed back at the last minute so he could impress her, and she did not like that reason at all. "Here's a better idea," she said. "We wait for them to reach town and draw everybody's attention away from the prisoners. _Then_ we strike." She was fairly certain Gradgrind would approve of this plan too, once Stacy's men could establish a connection. They were almost done, the shop owner had said.

As if in answer to her thought, the communications device in the corner crackled. "Scanning the frequencies in question," one of the men informed them, a giant with his head shaved she had noticed back in the montage hall already. His name was Bertie, according to what floated around in his mind, and he was dating another of Stacy's employees named Stuart and scared of the sect's acolytes finding out about it. A brief search revealed Stuart, a freckled man who was a head shorter than Bertie, but whose shoulders were similarly dimensioned; he was easy to identify by the fondness he radiated as he turned to watch his boyfriend work.

They all had their reasons to be here and plot. Some of them practically broadcasted it. Some men were friends with Becca, one fancied her and hoped she would notice him if he rescued her. One woman had had a friend who had been killed by the so-called Lawgiver's men. Two of them were simply sick of living in fear of what roamed the streets at night. Others hated the Lawgiver himself and how he claimed the power to pronounce judgement. One held a deep and personal grudge against one of the sect leader's henchmen. And they all were ready to stand up and do something at last, though most of them were afraid.

"Well," Stacy said, "let's discuss your proposal with your friends, shall we? Who's in charge out there, and how many more do you have?"

There was no point in keeping that secret; since Stacy not only knew who they were by now, but also about their mission, she might as well tell him. "His name is Robert Gradgrind. He's a Judge, too. The other two are cadets, twin boys, fifteen years old." She did not know how well those two would do in a combat situation, but they were Fargo clones like Dredd, practically younger versions of him. They simply _had_ to be able to take care of themselves.

Stacy gave her a lopsided little smile. "Is he as badass as your friend Dredd?"

"I hope so," Anderson said, gingerly answering his smile. "I don't know him that well."

"Well, then," Spikes announced grandly, his arms spread wide, "let's find out!"


	6. The Devil's Lapdogs

_**Author's Note: **__Thank you to all the reviewers! Especially those I didn't thank personally. Sorry, guys, I had a busy week at work. But I sat down Sunday night and wrote six pages straight, and here's the conclusion to the Deliverance adventure at last._  
_If you think the rating should change from T to M, let me know, I'm uncertain myself._  
_Oh, and there's a small continuity error in the last chapter. I'll fix it promptly. Nobody spotted it? Really?_

* * *

**6. The Devil's Lapdogs**

Thiago Tobler threw back his head and laughed. The wind whipped at the part of his face that was not hidden by his helmet as he clutched the railing running around the top of the Killdozer.

_C'mon_, Andrin said in his head, _stand up already!_

_You nuts? I'm gonna fall off! _They were going at a speed Thiago had not expected the vehicle to be capable of.

His twin's giggle echoed through his mind. _Possibly... Whoa, sugarplum, get back down and close the hatch, it's Gradgrind!_

Thiago reacted immediately. Despite his awkward crouch, he managed to get to the top hatch in one lunge, but when he tried to climb through, his gloved hands slipped, and he more fell than lowered himself down onto the platform above the cargo hold.

"Alright, cadets, what's going on here?" Gradgrind's voice echoed through the Killdozer's interior. "Close that hatch immediately!"

_Uh-oh, The Grinder's pissed._ But what Thiago heard his brother say out loud from the Killdozer's console at the front was, "Sorry, sir, right away." _Get off your ass, you buttmonkey, he's coming to check on you!_

_You could have warned me earlier, honey pie_, Thiago thought at his twin fiercely. Above him, the hatch closed itself.

_Don't nag me, peaches._ "Sir," Andrin called, "do we get to participate in the firefight?"

_Peaches? That's lame. You lose. _But at least his brother had distracted Gradgrind long enough for him to hasten over to the engine panel and pretend to be engrossed in studying it.

_No, I don't!_

_Yes, you do! You lose, and I win... snookums! _Thiago straightened hastily, preparing for inspection.

The appearance of Gradgrind beside him made him disregard his twin's rude reply. In full uniform just as he was, the Judge was an impressive figure. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to understand how this works, sir," Thiago answered innocently.

Gradgrind seemed unconvinced; with a snort he turned on his heels and marched back towards the front. "Yes, Tobler," Thiago heard him tell his brother, "you get to participate. I'll load you in the rocket launcher and fire you at that scumbag we're to deal with. Don't you _dare_ touch those controls again."

_Yep_, Thiago remarked, _The Grinder's pissed. Well spotted._

* * *

Confined in his makeshift cell once more, Dredd was pacing up and down impatiently. At least his hands were not bound this time, but it was of little use to him; the small room was windowless, and he very much doubted that the metal door could be kicked off its hinges. When his captors returned for him, he might overpower them once more, but of course this time they would be warned. They would be even more careful. Cursing inwardly, he clenched his fists and pictured doling out judgement on the sect outside. Incendiary, yes. That would be _lovely_.

_Never judge in anger_, he reminded himself. _Justice is not the same as revenge._ It was a principle they had been led to embrace early on at the Academy, and he had always done his best to stay true to it. But sometimes… sometimes it was hard.

Becca sat in a corner, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her head resting on her arms. She had been sitting like this for a long time now, and occasionally Dredd wondered whether he should address her. At last she lifted her head and regarded him out of bleary, reddened eyes. "I'm sorry about all this," she said abruptly.

"It's not your fault." Dredd resumed his pacing. Why they had locked the girl up with him, he had no idea. What had she done wrong, except exchange a few words with him? She was just an ordinary girl. But apparently the Lawgiver and his followers saw matters differently. "I'll get you out of here," he assured her, painfully aware of how unrealistic this must sound to her ears. "I won't let them harm you."

She smiled weakly. "That's sweet of you to say, Rico. Thank you."

At first he wanted to correct her, to tell her that he was Joe, not Rico, but what did it matter? She was nothing but a fleeting acquaintance, and after this day he would most likely never see her again. His real name was of no importance to her.

"They'll be building the crosses now," she murmured after a while. "They always build them in Stanton's workshop, right next door from here. They make them out of scrap metal, welding it together."

"They had better prepare for their own funeral," Dredd growled. He would not allow himself to be tied to one of those things and await whatever it was that came in the night. He would fight until the end. Of course, it would never come this far; Anderson, Gradgrind and the others would be there before it happened.

Why had he thought of Anderson first just now? Little more than a week ago she had been a rookie. A surprisingly capable rookie, yes, despite the mousy impression she had first given him, but still a rookie. With his long experience in the Manta tank units, Gradgrind should be the one to reckon with. Even without having met the man prior to this assignment, he should know he could rely on him. Why did he trust this girl more? Because they had fought their way through Peach Trees together? Because she had saved his life? She had come for him once, following the shots and the voices, and just in time. She would come for him again.

The sudden sound of gunfire tore him from his ruminations abruptly. Had the others arrived? There were screams and curses outside their prison door, more gunshots, and then a muffled male voice Dredd could not identify called out, "You in there?"

"Stacy!" Becca bounded to her feet and rushed towards the door at once, to hammer against it with her fists. "We're here!"

"Then stand back! Retreat to the farthest corner!"

Oh dear, Dredd thought. Shooting down the door. It was a common misconception that this was an easy way to gain access to a locked room. It might work, and it might not. If Stacy – and the others, he had no doubt – had stormed the church, couldn't they find a key somewhere? But no, they had to do it the dramatic way. Taking Becca's arm, he pulled her with him to the opposite side of the small room, into the corner that was not in direct line from the door, where he crouched down, pulled his chin to his chest, squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears. Now all he could do was hope for the best.

He had expected Becca to follow his example, but instead she wrapped her arms around him and pressed against him tightly. Silly girl! He meant to tell her to mirror him, but just then the wall right beside the door exploded inwards with a huge bang and a shower of dust and debris. Above, the single old-fashioned light bulb swayed with the aftershock. Dredd blinked, trying to see through the thick dust cloud. There was a shape moving in the opening, blocking the dust-filtered light… Disentangling himself from Becca firmly, he pulled her up with him. "C'mon, let's get out of here!"

It was hard to get her to move; she was practically leaning on him, holding onto him as if her life depended on it. Why did she start that all of a sudden, just when they were rescued? He simply did not understand civilians sometimes, Dredd had to admit to himself. Not that it mattered.

Ahead of him the dust dissipated, and Spikes became visible, grinning hugely. "Here we are, then, Judgey boy," he announced, "the cavalry come to your rescue." Right then, there was a distant crash, like a burst of thunder, and Dredd knew the Killdozer had arrived in town.

"Over here!" It was Anderson, still in her ridiculous-looking costume, but waving at them frantically with an old rifle. She was peeking out from behind an upturned cart, which she was obviously using as cover. "Quick! Out of the firing line!"

Swiftly Dredd assessed the situation. The workshop Becca had mentioned previously was right opposite them; the paint was peeling from the sign, but the name "Stanton" could still be made out. If Dredd were to venture a guess, this was where they would find more of the Lawgiver's followers. Various ragged shapes lay sprawled near the opening in the wall, a wide tear that had obviously been made by an explosive, though he could not have said what kind, exactly, explosives had never been his field of expertise. More cluttered the few paces between building and cart, one woman with half her head missing – large calibre, fired almost at point blank. It must have been Anderson. Dredd did his best to stay between Becca and the mangled remains as he ushered her towards cover. Bullets whistled past them from across the square beside the church as they hurried behind the cart; his guess that their enemies were firing from a window above the workshop had been correct.

"That was cool!" Spikes exclaimed, throwing himself down in the sand beside Anderson.

Anderson was already aiming for the window again, the rifle's muzzle resting between the cart's wheels. "Shut up and give him your gun," she muttered from the corner of her mouth. Her face screwed up in concentration, she fired, and with a scream a man fell from the window. He landed in the sand before the house, a cloud whirling up around him, twitched a few times, then lay still. "Last one down. By the way," she said, turning to look at Dredd and smiling, "good to see you again, sir."

"Nice shooting," Dredd complimented her as he accepted a holstered pistol from Spikes. If she said it had been the last one, he tended to believe her. Her abilities had proven extremely useful before. The range was greater than he had thought her capable, though.

Anderson positively beamed at him. "I was lucky. Thought I wouldn't get him."

"You did, and that's what matters." The pistol was loaded, and there were two spare magazines in a pocket on the holster, too, with ten shots each. It was no particularly good weapon, just a standard-issue old Piper Collins, a small calibre gun. But for now, it would do. "Where are the others?"

"The Killdozer is on its way here, Patton went back and fixed it. Stacy's inside the church with his boys," Anderson replied, cautiously peering around. "They were going for that Lawgiver creep. Spikes?"

Spikes pulled a communicator from his vest pocket. "Stace? C'min, Stace."

The communicator crackled, then Stacy's voice answered, "Church's secure. Most of them bolted."

Dredd cast a quick look around. On its way? The Killdozer was _on its way_? Not here yet? Well, that explosion had sounded some distance away. He should have guessed. "In, all of you," he decided. There was little cover to be had in the street, and who knew how many more armed men the sect could muster? He scanned the path to the church's main entrance critically. For now all was quiet, but a sniper might still be hiding somewhere, waiting for them to grow careless. Moreover, he did not like the idea of Stacy and his men – barely a handful, no doubt – going after that maniac on their own. The repair shop owner was risking his life in there; Dredd very much doubted Stacy had any experience in telling if a building really was secure.

"I'm almost out," Anderson said, sliding another magazine into her rifle. "You should have let us bring our own weapons."

"And where would you have hid them, in those ridiculous shorts of yours? Seriously," he added in the red-haired mechanic's direction, "let go of me, I'm not a blanket! Spikes, you take care of her. Anderson, all clear?"

After closing her eyes for a moment, Anderson confirmed, "Clear."

"C'mon." Spikes readily took Becca's arm. "Stick with me, okay? The big bad Judge needs his hands free."

Dredd paid her no more heed. "Send them after me when I tell you to," he ordered, then slowly lifted his head above the edge of the cart. Without his helmet, he felt unpleasantly defenceless and naked. But nothing happened. Crouched as low as possible, he hurried across the short stretch of open space, careful not to fall over any bodies. As he reached the church's corner, he pressed himself to the wall and peered around it carefully, pistol at the ready. Three dead men lay strewn before the entrance, one spread-eagled on his back, the other two in twisted poses. Nothing moved. Gesturing for Spikes and his charge to follow, he slipped around the corner.

The man with the hatchet rushed at him very suddenly as he had almost reached the door. Despite his surprise, Dredd reacted as quickly as he had been trained to do; one shot rang out, and the man staggered past him with a bleeding hole in his head and fell with a dull thud as Dredd quickly stepped aside. Every muscle tense, he remained in the same spot for several seconds, watching the door, but nobody else emerged. Quietly he approached it, took a cautious peek around the corner, but the church's ante-room was empty. "Clear!" he called out quietly to Spikes behind the corner.

Maybe he should have let Anderson go first. After all, she was the one who could see around corners.

Soon the others had joined him in the ante-room, and he and Anderson pushed the doors shut. There might be cult followers left inside, but this was better than the alternative. "Jam it," Dredd told Spikes before he and Anderson went to scout ahead. Where were Stacy and his friends? "And ask your pal where he is."

"On it, Judgey. Stacy? Stacy? Where are you?"

The communicator crackled, and the sound of a gunshot broke the silence, mirrored from the device only a fraction of a second later. There were curses on the other end, curses and an outcry. "Sacristy building," Stacy replied in a low hiss. "They're on us!"

"We're coming, Stace, hang in there," Spikes promised with a meaningful look at Dredd. "We're entering the main hall right now –"

"Shut up," Dredd snarled, but it was too late already. They could hear the footsteps approaching at a run on the stone floor, echoing in the large church hall. Many footsteps. "Never, and I mean never, give away our position when the enemy might be listening to the comm," Dredd reprimanded the punk. "Now get behind me and stay there. Radio silence until I tell you otherwise." The footsteps were close already. With the echo, the number of cult followers rushing at them was hard to estimate.

At some distance, the Killdozer roared again.

Anderson took up position right behind the doorframe like him, on the opposite side. She knew what was coming. "On my mark," he mouthed, and she nodded briskly, her jaw set, her dark eyes hard. The girl had come a long way since he had first met her.

Closer, ever closer... Now was the time. Nodding to Anderson, Dredd stepped sideways, into the doorway, and opened fire, with Anderson mirroring him immediately. Even as he emptied his magazine at them, all seven shots in rapid succession, he tried to count them. Nine, now eight, seven, six, five... He leapt back behind the doorjamb to reload. From the corner of his eye he could see Anderson do the same as he let the empty magazine clatter to the floor. This calibre was just too small to do enough damage when one had so little time to aim. Grimly he slammed the next magazine in, just as two bullets tore into the doorframe on the other side.

One man jumped through the doorway, reaching for him with bloody hands, but Anderson hit him over the head with the butt of her rifle, which bought him enough time to easily bring up his gun and shoot the man right between his fanatically gaping eyes. Anderson was still busy reloading, so Dredd threw himself at the remaining attackers alone. There were only two left, one bleeding heavily from a wound in his side, most likely torn by a shot from Anderson's rifle. The other held a gun, which made Dredd shoot him first, then the wounded man, who faltered as he realised he was the last one left, the knife falling from his slackening fingers even before the bullet found him.

Dredd took a deep breath and surveyed the damage they had done. "We were lucky," he decided. "Only five guns among them, and we managed to take them out early."

Anderson nodded, seemingly untouched by the bodies and blood before her, her face still grim. "Let's see if we can reload. I'm running out."

From behind them came a retching sound. Poor Becca. This was no place for a civilian. When Dredd cast a glance over his shoulder, Spikes looked decidedly sickly too. "Stay," he told him, and Spikes nodded weakly.

There were more shots ahead; Stacy and his companions were still under fire. Hurriedly Dredd and Anderson searched the bodies of the fallen. Anderson found one full magazine that matched her rifle, but Dredd had less success; nothing matched his pistol's calibre. So he took one man's shotgun. When the man stirred weakly, he stomped down on his neck hard, hoping neither Spikes nor Becca were watching him. The sound this produced was sickening even to a seasoned street Judge like him, though most likely they did not hear it anyway with all the background noise. After a moment's thought, he picked up a large knife and stuck it through his belt. It might come in handy later on, in case he ran out of bullets before the Killdozer arrived. "Gradgrind knows where we are, right?" he asked Anderson, just in case.

"Patton says he's got a lock on our comm signal," she replied.

"Good. Let's move."

The gunfire ahead had not ceased yet, nor had it grown less. If not for reasons of safety, Dredd would have run to save the repair shop owner and his friends. But even so, they were able to cross the main hall quickly, without any further obstacles. According to Anderson, who clearly had not come unprepared, the side door opposite the one behind which Dredd had been locked up did not lead to a symmetrical room, but rather to a smaller building complex directly adjacent to the church. This so-called sacristy had two entrances from outside, so she hastily informed him as they made their way towards it. She did not know the exact layout of the building, since neither Stacy nor any of his friends had ever been inside it, but she knew that it had two floors and a terrace on top, from which the church roof could be accessed. "You've done well," Dredd whispered as they took up positions by the connecting door, which had been left half open, and Anderson smiled at him proudly.

Just as he was about to push the door open, a broad-shouldered man staggered against the door with a grunt, dropping the cudgel he had been holding, and out into the main hall. "Stuart!" Anderson exclaimed, pulling the man toward her, and Dredd pointed his gun at the door once more.

"I'm fine!" the man assured her, though blood streamed from a cut half hidden under his hair, down over his freckled face. "I'm fine! Thank God you're here!"

Barely announced by Anderson's warning cry, one of the Lawgiver's men followed, but Dredd stopped him with the newly acquired shotgun, blood gushing from his torn chest as he fell. The weapon had a strong recoil, which Dredd did not like much, and he had to reload after only one shot, which he liked even less, but it produced results. Six cartridges left. He hoped it would last as long as he needed it.

As soon as he was done reloading, another man attacked them, wielding what looked like a scythe blade. Dredd shot him, too, and narrowly managed to avoid the slashing blade, cursing the Lawgiver and his madmen. Gradgrind, where the hell are you?

Anderson waited for his signal, and together they stormed the sacristy, blasting another three ragged men into oblivion. Stuart followed closely with the scythe blade, picking up his cudgel again as he went. This could get ugly, Dredd thought as they joined with two mechanics; both of them were armed with sticks and knives as well, apparently having run out of ammunition. Spikes came last with Becca, brandishing Rico's old knife as if it were a sword.

The mechanics claimed that the low-ceilinged room was clear, but Dredd nonetheless had Anderson check for hidden minds, especially the various cupboards in it. They might have held up well, considering the handful of bodies and the feebly moaning two wounded in a corner, but they were neither soldiers nor Judges. Ignoring the wounded – they clearly were in no condition to do them any harm – he led his tiny army on into the adjacent room, towards the sound of an ongoing fight, where Stacy and the others were supposed to be. Anderson took the rear again, her attitude tense as a coiled spring. And to think he had fully intended to fail her when he had first met her... It might possibly have been one of the greatest mistakes of his life, and he would not even have known it.

* * *

Deliverance slowed the Landraider down. Any resistance they encountered met with a fiery demise, courtesy of Gradgrind at the Killdozer's weapons console, but the houses and winding streets made for slow going even after they had dealt with the machine gun turrets. Andrin had half a mind to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet, and it took iron self-control not to. Beside him, Thiago was fidgeting, and it was contagious. _Stop it!_, he told him. But Thiago's effort did not last long.

When they reached the part of town that was fenced off by a metal barrier, the inhabitants closed the gates, but Gradgrind blasted them open again. Some fought; one even had a flamethrower. None were a match for the Killdozer's firepower, and in the end little of them was left to be buried. Gradgrind's features seemed to be hewn from stone as he quietly and efficiently did his job while Patton, at the Raider Truck's consoles, steered them safely through the chaos.

Judgement Day, Andrin thought, feeling both shaken and elated at the same time, and Thiago mirrored his feelings, sending back an echo.

"We're close," Patton's voice came over intercom. "I'll try and head straight for them, sir."

Andrin's fingers wrapped around his gun. As a cadet, he did not have a Lawgiver of his own yet, and he very much wished he had one, but he liked this one as well. It was similar enough in design, though a little lighter and smaller, and it fired only regular bullets and stun charges, but it had a Rapid Fire setting too. Andrin liked Rapid Fire.

"You may yet need that, cadet," Gradgrind said, his eyes on his console, "but most likely you won't. Get in the Truck and be ready to open the door when Patton tells you to."

"Yes, sir." It seemed Gradgrind missed nothing. Andrin ducked through the open hatch – he did not have to bend his head much, but for Gradgrind and Dredd it was a pretty low entrance – and entered the Raider Truck.

A narrow corridor led to the Raider Truck's main room, with two doors on each side, the front pair leading to the bunks, the ones nearest to the hatch to shower and lavatory respectively. The main room mostly consisted of a sitting area with a tactical table. There were several cargo compartments holding supplies and equipment. Normally everything was stowed away neatly, but now helmets, vests and weapons lay ready for Dredd and Anderson. Andrin took up his position directly beside the door, ready to press the button to open it. Of course Patton could do the same from his seat in the cockpit, from where he was steering the vehicle, with the mechanic Mike watching in fascination, but Andrin might have to hand the weapons through instead of just letting the two Judges in. Deliverance would see justice done, he was certain of it. "I'm at the door," he told Patton.

"Good." The engineer swerved around an obstacle Andrin could not identify through the windscreen, and he had to grab onto the rail beside the door not to fall. "Stand by for my signal."

* * *

In a way, it was a lot like Peach Trees on a smaller scale. They scoured the sacristy together, chasing down cult followers and dispensing judgement. Anderson wished she had her uniform. The rifle helped, but the hot pants still made her feel extremely foolish.

The sacristy had a surprising amount of rooms, some of them looking like someone lived in there usually. Maybe the core of the sect had made their home there. At each door, Anderson scouted ahead with her mind, then they stormed the room and dealt with whatever resistance they met.

They finally found Stacy and the remaining mechanics on the stairs to the upper floor. Some, including Stacy himself, were wounded, and three of his employees were dead. Dredd had them barricade themselves in one of the rooms on the lower floor, along with Becca, and he would clearly have preferred to leave Spikes behind too, but the punk right-out refused, and so did Stuart and his giant of a boyfriend, Bertie. In the end Dredd gave them permission to tag along, making sure they were properly armed – Bertie even got the shotgun Dredd had found, though little ammunition remained for it, and Stuart got the knife Dredd had taken from one of their fallen enemies –, and they had to stay behind upon storming another room until he called for them.

As they progressed through the upper level of the sacristy, they met with little resistance. Apparently Stacy had been right; a good many of the Lawgiver's men had fled. Anderson could feel Dredd's anger at this, he would have liked to root out this plague for good. Especially locating the cult leader had some priority to him, and Anderson found herself in complete agreement. After all, that madman was chiefly responsible for a number of gruesome murders, and for terrorising an entire town. Beyond Mega-City One's jurisdiction or not, that madman had to be captured and properly sentenced.

Handcuffed to the metal stairs leading up to the roof access hatch, low enough to force her into a kneeling position, they encountered Sandra.

Handing Dredd to the cult had clearly not paid off for her. Her face was bruised, her lips split and bleeding, and as she grimaced at the approaching Judges, her teeth were bloodied too, and one front tooth even was missing. Anderson looked at Dredd sideways. The shutters had come down around his mind once more; he was hard to read. Iron resolve, but little else. How would he deal with her? Conspiracy to murder a Judge, Anderson thought. A death sentence.

"So," Dredd said after contemplating her briefly. "How does the whole thinking on your sins suit you? I get it, thinking never was your strong point, but maybe this you can do?"

"Rot in hell!" the woman spat.

"I have no intention to." To Anderson's surprise, he lowered his gun. "You, however... Normally, we could either do this quickly, or we could drag this out. But I don't mean to do any of that. You see, there is one sin you might consider me guilty of in regard to you. One single sin."

"Which one would that be?" she hissed. "Lying to me? Leaving me? Cheating on me with all your other –"

"No," he cut in, "deceiving you. Before I deal with you, you deserve to know the truth. I'm not Rico. I'm his twin brother. I only ever spent one night with you, that one before your birthday. Remember that? I meant to tell you, but... never mind. You were just a hooker, he said. But you were in love with him, weren't you?"

Sandra gaped up at him. "You... I'd call you a liar, but... I thought you were different, that night. Gentle. Sweet. Almost a little shy. And I thought that maybe you – he – had feelings for me after all." She swallowed, and Anderson sensed sadness about her, for a moment drowning out the shame and hate that lay about her so thickly. "What became of him?"

"He's serving a twenty-year sentence on Titan."

Twenty years? On Titan? Now Anderson had to do her best not to gape in turn. After what she had seen in Dredd's memories, she had believed Rico dead! But this sentence could mean only one thing: a bent Judge. Dredd's own twin, his clone brother, committing a serious crime? Of course, sometimes clones... went wrong. It was a well-known fact, but little talked about. There had been more than one clone in her own year, most of them excellent students… except for that one boy who had started acting stranger and stranger and then one day disappeared without a trace, and nobody would answer their questions about what had happened to him. Had Dredd's brother gone insane somehow, too?

Sandra was quiet for a moment. "This would explain why he never called," she stated finally.

"Something you obviously were prepared to have him killed for," Dredd commented wryly.

"Killed?" Her eyes widened. "No! No, you must not believe that! Please! You've got to understand, they..." She took a deep breath. "When a man seduces a woman, then leaves her, they usually have him flogged, then he is forced to marry her." Lowering her head, she avoided Dredd's gaze.

"I don't think you'd have enjoyed being married to Rico," Dredd said dryly. Nodding to Anderson, he added, "Since we're busy, and you're not going anywhere... well, we'll see you later. Anyone up there?"

Anderson had almost forgotten about mentally searching the roof. "Yes," she said, "there is... Sir, I think it's him."

Dredd merely nodded, but she could feel something inside him clenching. "Spikes," he called, "in here!" Immediately Spikes and the pair of mechanics appeared, and he instructed them, "Stay here and keep your eyes open. Anyone comes down from the roof that's not us, shoot him. Oh, and don't touch that girl."

"But I could free her," Stuart offered, after a critical look at the handcuffs. He reached for the small pouch of tools he still wore belted around his waist. "Do you want me to free her?"

Already on his way up the stairs, Dredd stopped short. His expression was unreadable. "Yes," he answered at last. "Uncuff her, and set her free. Her main crime was sheer stupidity, and she already got what she deserved." Without a second glance at the woman, he headed for the low, curtained doorway that led out onto the roof.

* * *

The Landraider ground to a standstill. "They're in that church," Patton's voice came over the intercom. "I'll try and hail them."

"Give me a channel," Gradgrind commanded. "I'll talk to them."

"Yes, sir," came the prompt reply. "Channel is open... now." Looking up, Thiago saw an additional blue light blinking next to the small green control light on the intercom device on the wall beside them and committed it to memory, just as he had been doing his best to memorise what Gradgrind had been doing until now. Andrin would be doing the same in the cockpit if he could.

"Judge Dredd, this is the Landraider. Come in please." Gradgrind's expression beneath his helmet did not change, whether he was firing missiles or speaking over comm. Thiago idly wondered if this was an actual requirement for senior Judges.

It took a little while for a response to come; just when Gradgrind seemed about to repeat his message, the familiar crackle announced the answer. "Landraider, this is Dredd. Do you have our position?"

"We read you on the church roof," Patton put in from the cockpit.

"We're ready for you to assume command," Gradgrind said. Did it bother him, having to pass his temporary authority on to a younger man once more? If so, Thiago saw no sign of it. "Standing by for instructions."

"Acknowledged. Gradgrind, crowd control. Any sign of resistance, blast it to hell. Send the cadets up here with our gear. In through the side building, up to the top. The place is quiet for now. Our sentries will be informed. Patton, ready the bikes again. We might yet need them. Dredd out."

This must be what it was like when one's heart skipped a beat. And then it was racing, with excitement, with pure joy. "Tobler, you heard him," Gradgrind said, "get out there." But he would not have needed the order. He ran, leaped through the hatch, skidded past the side hatches in the back of the Raider Truck and almost collided with his twin on the other side, where he found his feelings mirrored and multiplied by Andrin's proximity.

Andrin had already snatched up Dredd's weapon, vest and helmet, so Thiago took Anderson's. _Go on_, Andrin said as the door opened, and Thiago leapt out into the heat and the dust. The last thing he heard was Patton over the intercom. "Passing on vehicle control." Gradgrind would be steering from the weapons console now, and Thiago would very much have liked to watch that, but this was even better. Much, much better.

* * *

The sacristy's roof was flat, with a low wall surrounding it, the doorway and an open and empty storage compartment beside it being the only higher areas, while the church roof rose up steeply. Dredd saw a gallery with a stone railing running around its circumference, in a crude lace pattern probably inspired by earlier ages, but the railing was too high to allow a clear view behind it. "Where is he?" he asked Anderson.

She pointed. "Over there. With two others. Moving towards the tower slowly." He immediately made to pursue, but she gripped his sleeve. "Wait. The boys are on their way."

Seconds later, the pair of cadets appeared through the door to the roof, panting, but not slowing down. Their white helmets gleamed in the sun. Quicker than he had hoped, Dredd had to admit. But of course, those boys were Fargo clones, among the finest clone stock there was. "Sir," one of them choked out, thrusting his equipment at him, and he lost no time to put on his helmet and his vest and snatched his weapon from him. Still zipping up his vest, he already started for the gap in the stone railing that allowed him access to the church's roof gallery. "Cadets are yours. Cover me," he told Anderson without turning back. After all, she knew what to do.

The gallery was broader than he had expected, two men could have walked beside each other easily. There were traces of blood on the rough, weathered stone floor; maybe the madman was wounded? In the direction Anderson had pointed out, the way was clear until the next bend, where it disappeared out of side, so Dredd followed at a jog. It would make sense to have Anderson scout ahead, it occurred to him, but this was something he meant to do himself.

When he peered around the corner, he could see them ahead of him, turning around the next. He followed at a run, along the church's narrow side, the sound of his boots on the floor drowned out by the Killdozer's roar from beneath. He was crossing the altar room at the moment. Slowing down before the corner, he once again took a careful look around it. The Killdozer had fallen silent again, giving way to screams and howls, yet they might still have heard his footsteps, or be wary of pursuers. But they had not turned, and he had almost caught up with them. They were approaching the tower that rose up a good fifty feet above the edge of the roof, more or less opposite the sacristy building. The gallery led right into its side.

It was not the Lawgiver who had been wounded. It was one of the other men behind him. Limping heavily, aided by his equally ragged companion, he was dragging some red cylindrical item along, while the cult leader seemed to be raving at them; Dredd saw him gesturing grandly with his staff, but could not quite make out the words. "Freeze!" he bellowed. "Hands above your heads!"

With a clang, the men dropped what they had been carrying and swivelled around, and one of them, the wounded man, opened fire immediately. Dredd threw himself aside against the wall, but still he could feel the punch of one of the bullets into his protective vest, while more whistled past him. "Rapid fire," he hissed, and the man collapsed with multiple projectiles in his chest and stomach. Immediately Dredd was back on his feet, but the cult leader and his companion had fled into the tower already, dragging the cylindrical object between them.

Cursing, Dredd took up the pursuit once more, only briefly casting a glance over his shoulder to see if Anderson and the cadets were in sight, but they had not appeared around the corner yet. Most likely Anderson could tell what was going on without seeing it – a thought that was reassuring and unsettling at the same time.

He could have bet she had taken her helmet off again.

There was no door, just a heavy curtain. Weapon at the ready, Dredd rushed through. A metal stairway led up to a level above, from where he could hear their voices, and he took three steps at a time. "Got you now, creeps!" he snarled, leaping over the last two.

The Lawgiver's acolyte met him at the topmost step, cannonballing into him. Dredd recognised one of the bodyguards that had accompanied the cult leader at the church. He tried to sidestep him, but it was too late; he staggered against the wall, the impact a sharp pain in his unprotected right elbow. His fingers twitched, and the gun almost slipped from his grasp. He was no longer touching the trigger. The man was clawing at his throat, his eyes wide and bright in a sun-dark face. Dredd brought up is left arm to protect himself and attempted to knee him in the groin, but missed; his knee hit his opponent's hip, and he wished he had his kneepads. Out of nowhere a booted foot caught him in the shin hard, and he could barely deflect another strike at his neck. The man was smaller and lighter than he was, but he was fast. Trapping the man's arm against his body, Dredd headbutted him, making him grunt and stumble over the last step, fighting to regain his balance. Dredd let a swift sidekick follow, throwing him down on the floor.

It gave him time enough to grasp his Lawgiver again, the true Lawgiver. He pointed it at the madman who had usurped the name. "It's over," he told him.

"Too late!" The madman's voice rang out loud and full in the small room. The large silver cylinder stood before him, held upright inside a ring-shaped metal contraption that clearly was meant for it. To either side of them, metal shutters in the walls were tilting, opening their lamellas to the afternoon sun. "The Devil's Lapdogs are coming for you, and for all the evil people in this town!" His spindly fingers hit a button on the cylinder's top, and at once a siren's deafening wail drowned out all other sounds, and pale mist sprayed from a ring of openings around its middle.

"Landraider to Dredd," came Gradgrind's voice in his ear. "What's going on?" But without his gloves or the communicator, he had no way of responding. Even if he had had one, he could not have told them. But he had the feeling that this was bad.

But there was no time to worry about those rumoured creatures. His previous opponent was back on his feet. Blood dripped from the man's nose over the lower half of his face, yet he hardly seemed to feel it. With a strangled cry he launched himself at Dredd once more. But Dredd brought up his knee in time, and this time it hit its target. With a suffocated grunt the man folded up, and Dredd pulled the trigger, but somehow the man was too fast once more and grasped his wrist in time to divert the gun, sending a hail of bullets into the large milky window that looked out over the square. The gunshots were audible above the siren, the shattering glass barely. Dredd's left fist met the enemy's cheekbone, but the man turned his head at the last moment, and the impact was a lot weaker than it should have been. Struggling fiercely, they staggered past the siren, past the madman, who was shouting something that was impossible to make out. Where the hell was Anderson?

At last Dredd managed to fire a shot into his enemy's leg. The man fell, but clung to him, his fingers desperately maintaining their grip around his wrist. Dredd smelled a sickening mixture of blood and sweat. Another shot, another. The man's face was contorted in agony, his kneecap probably shattered, but he did not let go. Was he drugged, or was it his fanaticism alone that kept him going? They were directly in front of the broken window now. With all the force he could manage, Dredd slammed the man into it, and the remaining glass burst behind him and showered downwards. Half-hanging in empty air, the man screamed, but the siren drowned out his voice. His grip on Dredd's wrist was slipping at last. Dredd fired again, into the thigh this time, but the sect member was holding on by sheer force of will.

And then, just as he had almost lost his hold, he managed to somehow bring up his left hand and yank at the protective vest. Dredd's stomach lurched as he teetered over the edge with him. "Hot shot!" he roared, hoping his weapon's voice recognition would hear him over the siren's wail as he pulled the trigger once more.

It did. The projectile hit the man in the side, and he convulsed, and Dredd pulled free at last. Screaming silently against the siren's voice, the man fell, trailing a thin wisp of smoke.

The cult's leader was gone.

Just then Anderson came rushing in, wearing her helmet for once, the cadets heeling her closely. "Where is he?" he yelled at her as he punched the button on top of the cylinder with his fist, but the contraption did not react.

Whether she really understood him or read his mind to get his meaning he did not know, and he did not care. When she pointed downwards, he followed at a run. This had to end, and now! At the tower's roof level, he stopped, cursing and looking back at Anderson – where had the madman gone, on along the gallery or further down? –, and she pointed downwards once more, to the spiral staircase that apparently led down into the church. The siren's sound was more bearable the further they ran – maybe he should have dealt with the device before chasing the Lawgiver? –, but despite the slight protection his helmet offered, it was still ringing in his ears. One of the twins was reporting back to the Landraider via his glove communicator, but he barely took any notice. Cold rage was giving him wings. At ground level, a door stood ajar, and he sprinted through, brushing aside a curtain – and found himself in the church's main hall once more.

"You cannot stop me!" The Lawgiver was standing in the middle of the empty hall, pointing his staff at his pursuers, and his voice filled the room. "There is no escape from the Divine Judgement!" His ragged garments billowed around him as he turned and headed towards the sacristy at a rather undignified rush that spoiled the grand scene.

"You'll find there is even less from mine," Dredd replied dryly, raising his weapon –

"You're not getting away!" Spikes cried, leaping out of the sacristy door and waving his knife in the air. "Stay right where you are!"

"Fuck it, Spikes!" Dredd roared. "Get down!"

But the Lawgiver had already launched himself at the spiky-haired punk, striking out with his staff. Spikes yelped on a similar pitch as the accursed siren, but would not give way. Dredd sprinted towards them, just as the madman attacked once again, leaping at Spikes like a predator –

And then he suddenly crumpled onto Spikes's shoulder, and Spikes's eyes widened in horror. The staff clattered to the floor, the skull on its top breaking with a crunch barely audible against the background noise. A moment later Dredd arrived and yanked the madman away by the back of his rough robe, revealing the bloody knife in the punk's hand. Spikes was staring at it in disbelief.

The Lawgiver struggled weakly in Dredd's grasp, gripping his shoulder. "Too late," he choked out. "Too late..." There was a thin rivulet of blood at the corner of his mouth, dripping into his tangled beard. "They're coming..."

"Whatever your real name is," Dredd said coldly, "I'm sentencing you to death for multiple homicide." There were plenty of other charges coming to mind, but this was quite enough already. "Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

But the madman's deep-set eyes were already losing their focus, glazing over. They were blue, Dredd noticed inconsequentially. He did not look at Spikes as he fired one single shot into the man's head; he knew he would turn away. It was for the better.

But as he turned his back on the body that lay slumped on the floor of the structure that had once been the centre of his power, he saw that Spikes was still staring at the knife in his hand. "I killed him," he mumbled tonelessly, barely audibly over the siren above. "I killed him."

"You didn't," Dredd said curtly. "I did." In truth, he wasn't too sure. Taking the knife from Spikes's limp hand, he knelt to wipe the blade on the dead cult leader's rope, then offered it to him once more, but Spikes recoiled. Shrugging, he pocketed it himself. Rico's old knife. How ironically fitting that the man who had believed to sentence Rico to death would die by Rico's own blade.

"Sir," Anderson spoke up. She looked plain ridiculous in her vest and hot pants, it flitted across Dredd's mind, even with the helmet under her arm. "There's something out there... I'm not sure what it is. It's like... like many small minds. An pack of them. And they're..." Her expression became uncertain. "Hungry?"

"Contact the Landraider," Dredd told the twin standing closer to him. "Ask them..."

"Landraider to Dredd and team," Gradgrind's voice interrupted him inside his helmet, and Spikes's communicator simultaneously woke to life. "The streets are swarming with rats. Huge rats. Get out of here _now_."

"Shit!" Dredd hissed. Giant rats! Where had they come from so suddenly? This whole town was a madhouse! "Anderson, take the others and barricade yourself in the sacristy with Stacy. I'll take a look outside and –" And then the idea hit him. Of course. Of course! "Belay that order. Cadets, Spikes, in the sacristy with Stacy. Anderson, with me. And give me that," he added, snatching the communicator from Spikes's vest pocket. "Run, goddammit!" With that, he turned and headed in the opposite direction at a fast pace.

"Sir, where are we going?" Anderson asked, jogging to keep up.

"To the roof," he replied curtly, pushing the communicator into her unresisting hand. "Tell the Landraider to receive us at the main door. And I want that bike ready."

As they hastened back up the stairs whence they had come, she passed on the message as instructed. The siren's wail grew louder as they ascended, so that Anderson put her helmet back on at last. Back up in the tower chamber, the noise was deafening.

Striding over to the broken window, Dredd looked down at the square below. Anderson came to stand at his shoulder, and together they surveyed the scene of chaos. Furry creatures in hues of grey and brown were racing all over the place, at least twenty of them, seemingly scrawny rats in shape, but at least the size of large dogs, and that without counting their swishing tails. Previously the square had been deserted, with everybody gone into hiding, but now men, women and children ran in panic, roused from their houses and desperately seeking shelter in others. They had probably not managed to close their homes down in time. But the creatures leaped at them and pulled them down; in places bloody arms waved helplessly from a milling mass of fur, while other creatures were still feeding from torn cadavers. Amid it all, the Landraider was raining bullets on the creatures and rolling over them, but hitting a fleeing human on occasion, since the monsters moved fast and erratically, and more of the creatures emerged from the alleyways. It was an image taken directly from a horror movie.

There was no time to lose.

"Help me," Dredd shouted at Anderson, and together they pulled the siren from its place in the floor. To Dredd's relief, it was a less heavy than he had feared. Still, transporting it back down the stairs was somewhat difficult, especially since neither of them had any intention of pocketing their weapon, not with homicidal critter about. "Where the hell did they come from?" he panted.

"Out of the ground?" she ventured a guess. She had put her helmet back on to have one hand free for the carrying. "This place does have a sewage system underground."

They hurriedly dragged the still wailing and fog-spraying siren across the hall. Before they pushed open the entrance door, they exchanged a glance, and Anderson nodded. Dredd did not know whether it meant that all was clear outside, or if it was merely a gesture of support. With his left arm around the siren, gripping the vibrating device tight, Dredd pushed at the door, gun at the ready. What was that fog, some kind of scent signal? Pheromones? He hoped he would not smell attractive to mutant rats for the rest of their journey.

The Landraider stood right before them, its back hatch open. Gradgrind and Stacy's employee Mike were fending the creatures off with flamethrowers. Patton sat on one of the bikes between them. When he saw Dredd and Anderson emerge, he rode it directly off the ramp at a jump. The landing around three feet below was rough, and Patton more tumbled off than got off properly, but the bike's internal computer kept it upright. Hastily Dredd loaded the siren onto its back, aided by Anderson and the technician, and locked the magnetic clamp, then gestured for Patton to get back into the safety of the Landraider. They had played their part. Now it was his turn.

This had to work. It simply _had_ to!

_I'm coming with you._ Anderson's voice sounded in his head suddenly, filling his awareness. _I know what you're trying to do. You need someone to keep those monsters away from you._

There was no time for arguing, and she had a point anyway. He allowed her to get on behind him. Kicking the bike into gear, he weaved through the milling crowd beside the church and rounded it on the other side. A pair of giant rats came at him, and Anderson shouted "Incendiary!" and fired. The burning monsters' squeals mingled with the siren's wail to create a horrid cacophony.

Once they left the open square, it was easier to avoid people, but more than once he ran over mutant rats. Soon enough Anderson had used up her incendiary ammunition and had to switch to something else. A few hot shots scorched attacking creatures, and a high explosive charge tore a large gaggle to shreds. How many of them were there? Could they all just live in the sewers and feed on garbage? Dredd accelerated as he saw the metal palisade up ahead, but there was no opening in it to be seen, so he fired the bike cannons at it, tearing an artificial hole into it and racing through just as part of it collapsed outward. He was lucky today, but he would need all his luck for what he was planning.

When he headed out towards the open desert, he slowed down once more. If he went too fast, he risked his plan's success.

_They're following_, Anderson answered the unspoken question in his head. _It's working._

The first part, yes, Dredd thought. Just the first part.

_The most important part_, Anderson pointed out.

Yeah, I guess. Now get out of my head.

He could not see them in the mirrors, but after a little while he gave in to temptation and turned his head. There really was a mass of the mutant creatures behind them, at least fifty, running as fast as they could to keep up, to follow the sound that meant food to them. And after them... Perfect. Patton or Gradgrind had understood without Anderson having to tell them what to do; the Landraider was trailing them at some distance. With that firepower, the problem should be solvable. Hopefully.

Dredd decided they had gone far enough. He tapped the control screen and activated the magnetic lock release, then swerved around in a wide arc.

As he headed back towards where he had dropped the wailing cylinder, the mutant rats were converging on it, irresistibly drawn by the scent, he supposed, though several were already twitching their noses at the two Judges on their bike. The siren did not look overly edible probably. But then again, who knew what those things ate? They certainly had large, sharp-looking teeth. Raising his own Lawgiver above the handlebar, Dredd shouted over the noise, "Incendiary!" Then he quickly pulled away as the Killdozer's weapon systems woke to life, replacing the siren's high-pitched screech with crashes and explosions. A rocket slammed into the loose ground amid the projectiles, sand and dirt spraying up in high curtains as it exploded, with limbs and blood and small bits of debris.

Dredd brought the bike to a standstill. Gradgrind was still firing for good measure, yet little remained but charred ground. Then the Killdozer's weapons fell silent at last. The absence of noise was unusual to him. His ears felt like coated in something woolly or furry. But it was over. It was over at last. As he began to relax, he allowed himself to feel what he had pushed far down in his consciousness before. He was hungry, he was very thirsty, he was tired, he was coated in sweat, blood and dust, his elbow and shin still hurt somewhat, his back felt sore, too, and his bladder was unpleasantly full – at least one matter that could easily be taken care of. But he also felt the tension draining out of him, and it was a very pleasant feeling.

* * *

They did not travel far that afternoon. A report to Control had to be made, goodbyes had to be said, and Stacy had to be given the contact details for the Hall of Justice in case he changed his mind and moved to the city after all. Patton offered advice on how to scour the sewage systems and the underground dump beneath the city to which it apparently led, just in case. At least Stacy was pretty sure they could handle that onerous task themselves.

Also, one adventure was behind them, but the so-called Mutie Mountains lay directly ahead, and the briefing folder was full of words of caution regarding that area. Anderson briefly studied it with some unease, then decided to ignore it for now. There was time enough for worry the next day.

She felt relieved when she could change back into her uniform, and when they sat down around the tactical table, with the twins sitting on the floor cross-legged, and each had a large protein bar, when Spikes, though half-heartedly, complained about the food and Patton studied its nutrition value critically, everything seemed back to normal. It was strange, their mission had just begun, and already she was experiencing a sense of normality about it? And she had not even been a Judge for two weeks!

"So, tell me, Dredd," Gradgrind spoke up after a brief silence, "how did you figure it out?"

Dredd shrugged. He, too, had changed back into his uniform, minus vest and helmet. "That they were trained to follow the sound of the siren? Easy. That insane perp pretty much told me, though I bet he never realised. Also, I heard a story when I was a child, about a rat-catcher coming to town and luring all the rats away with a flute. Doctor Judd told me." Here he looked at the pair of cadets. "You know him, don't you?"

"Sure," one of them replied, after a fraction of a second's waiting whether the other one would reply. It was a pattern Anderson had started to notice, but she was not quite certain yet. Unless she was mistaken, there _was_ a difference between the boys. "He was in charge of the lab. Took care of us and all."

"Gave us candy," the other boy supplied. Anderson was almost convinced he was Andrin. "Told us stories and showed us pictures."

"Closest thing to a father we have, I guess," said Thiago – if he really was Thiago.

"Judge Fargo is your father." Dredd did not precisely speak sharply, but with a certain conviction in his voice. Getting to his feet, he went over to one of the storage compartments and started rummaging in it.

_Too bad Anderson's in her uniform again_, one of the twins – Thiago, it seemed – observed after a pause.

_Yeah. She has nice legs, doesn't she?_

_Totally. I'd like some cleavage to go with it. She has nice curves, too._

_And, not to forget, a nice butt._

_You could almost see that, with those panty things._

_Oooh yes. I actually caught a glimpse. It was –_

Enough was enough. Teenage boys were such a nuisance sometimes, especially if one could read their thoughts without even trying hard. And they thought they had a secret, conversing like that. They thought they were smart. They were very, very wrong. Putting on her sweetest smile, Anderson asked, _Whatever makes you think I can't hear you?_

Both boys stared at her, mortified. Then they simultaneously lowered their heads, a faint blush creeping onto their smooth cheeks.

But, much to her disappointment, she had no time to enjoy her little triumph or observe their reactions. "I'm retiring for a little while," Dredd announced. "Anderson, with me, I want a word. Patton, keep her moving for two hours. I'll be back by then. Gradgrind's in charge."

Squeezing past Spikes, Anderson got up and followed him into the Killdozer. In contrast to the Raider Truck, which had not only a cockpit surrounded by bulletproof glass on three sides, but also a handful of smaller windows through which daylight fell into the vehicle, the Killdozer's window front was nothing but a relatively narrow line above the main console. While the Raider Truck was brightly lit by the sun, the Killdozer was mostly filled with a gentle twilight in comparison.

At their spot above the cargo hold, Dredd stopped and handed her something he seemed to have taken from the storage compartment. It was a small cardboard box apparently containing a paste tube. She looked up at him in surprise, and he actually managed to wear a sheepish expression. "Would you mind rubbing this on my back? I think I caught a bit of sunburn."

Anderson was hard pressed not to laugh. "And let me guess, I'm not to tell the others?"

"No," he said firmly. "Especially not Hershey, should she ever ask."


	7. The Mutie Mountains

_**Author's **__**Note:  
Edit:** Fixed the embarrassing typo in the title. Whoops. That's what happens when you proof-read at 7 in the morning, I guess.  
Thanks for the reviews so far, and I hope you keep them coming. Crack the 50 mark this time, pwetty pwease? *puppy dog eyes*  
Also, lack of reviews = not so motivating. I'd have updated approximately 3 days earlier if I hadn't spent a good part of the time after the last update honing my brooding skills because there hardly was any feedback. (The weird one that randomly complained about my alleged lack of knowledge of Doctor Who cracked me up, though.)  
_

* * *

**7. The Mutie Mountains**

They stopped for the night under a rock outcropping in the middle of a jagged landscape of wind-bitten rock teeth. Their scanners told them that there was nothing alive in the vicinity except insects and tiny lizards, so Patton set the Landraider to proximity alert, and they all went to sleep. It might have to do with the fact that Anderson was exhausted, but she slept well that night and only woke the next morning when Dredd, fully dressed except for his helmet, nudged her shoulder with his foot and asked if she really meant to skip breakfast.

After a protein bar, a vitamin pill and a bottle of fruit juice each, their journey continued. Even without her psychic ability, Anderson could have felt the tension in the air. Both Dredd and Gradgrind were in full street uniform now, including their helmets, and the cadets imitated them straight away. Patton had readied a plain brown vest and black and brown helmet she had not seen before; apparently Tek Division had its own armour, though she had only ever seen its members in their usual brown uniforms until now, not unlike the midnight blue indoor uniforms Judges wore. Even Spikes seemed subdued in comparison to his normal noisy and obnoxious self.

"I hope he's not planning on doing something brave again," she overheard Patton say to Gradgrind on a short stop to check the state of the repaired crawler. Once again, Patton had accompanied the engineer outside, and Anderson had merely been intending to take a look at the greyish-brown landscape of rocks. "I don't want to get tangled in some mutie feud or anything of the like." Without having to read Patton's mind, she was fairly certain that he was referring to Dredd.

Gradgrind snorted. "The boy's got balls, I have to give him that. But he's just like most young Judges when you give them a command: always trying to prove themselves. In his case, I fear all his successes have gone to his head. I hear he's taken on a whole block on his own last week."

"I dunno," Patton replied, with his head stuck through an access hatch in the side of the chassis, so that his voice sounded hollow, "he seems decent enough to me."

"No question of that," Gradgrind agreed. "I just think a spell of carrying out orders instead of giving them would be good for his ego. Fargo's son!" He snorted again. "Rankin tells me McGruder can't stand him, though she does think highly of his abilities."

"Yeah," Patton remarked, re-emerging from the hatch, "I could tell."

"This girl Anderson, now," Gradgrind continued, "she looks promising to me. No idea why they picked her, but I'd whole-heartedly approve of the choice... if she weren't so infatuated with our precious commander."

They were coming back to get inside the Landraider, so Anderson hastened to get back in as well and escaped to the Killdozer; she feared she would be unable to conceal the indignation that must be showing on her face, both on Dredd's and her own behalf. She was pleased about Gradgrind's praise – he did not seem like the kind of man to be content easily – but calling her infatuated? _Infatuated_? What did he think she was, some silly girl going moon-eyed at the sight of an attractive man?

Now wait a minute. Where had _attractive_ come from all of a sudden? True, he was not hard on the eye, but no way nearly as handsome as Gibson! She was a Judge, she had no business thinking about him that way. And not about Gibson, either, she reminded herself. Act like a Judge, not like a teenage cadet!

Still, she had never been _infatuated_!

"What's the matter?" Dredd asked, leaning on the Killdozer's main console with his briefing folder in his gloved hand. "Did you come in here to bite my head off? Because you sure look like you're about to."

Not funny! "I'm afraid I can't open my mouth wide enough for that," she retorted.

"Practise on the muties," he advised. "Says in here there's some with small heads."

Despite her current bad mood, Anderson had to smile, and he answered with a tiny smile of his own, nothing but a twitch of one corner of his mouth. "Gradgrind is not exactly happy with you," she told him. "He pretty much called you arrogant."

Dredd merely shrugged. "He's got twenty years on me and an impeccable record to boot, and still they put me over him. I don't expect him to like me much." It seemed that it did not bother him; all Anderson could clearly read around him was the tension they all were experiencing at the moment. "I may have to depend on him later today, though."

"So you think they're going to attack us?" He knew who she was referring to anyway; calling them mutants only reminded her that she was one herself, and that in some twisted way she might be considered one of them.

Again he shrugged. "Let's hope not. If we pass through quickly enough, they may not even notice us. In fact, I'm counting on that. Or if they do, they won't have time enough to prepare an attack, not on an armoured transport like ours. Reports say they're quite heavily armed themselves, and I'd be stupid to doubt them, but something like this should still give them pause." Pushing himself away from the console, he added, "We'll make another quick maintenance stop at midday, then make a straight dash for the Border Pass."

"Why do they call it Border Pass?" she asked as she followed him back into the Raider Truck module. "It doesn't say in the folder. It's in the middle of… their territory, so it doesn't make much sense."

"Used to be the border between the old states Missouri and Iowa," he replied. "Of course, it didn't quite look like that back then. Behind those mountains is a huge crater. I guess they might even have been lower in the old days, I don't really know."

Anderson nodded. She very much wished she could have seen the world when it was whole. Forests, rivers, lakes, meadows, a world painted in rich hues of green and blue… and all that remained now was empty desert and stark, bare rock rearing up into the sky. To think that something that had taken millennia to develop could be irrevocably destroyed within a mere decade… It made her sad.

In the Raider Truck, Gradgrind was using what space was available to instruct the twins in hand-to-hand combat, with Spikes sitting behind the tactical table cross-legged and watching with his chin in his hand. "It's a common misconception," Gradgrind was lecturing as she and Dredd entered, "that the split entry, as a defensive move, must be combined with a finger jab or something similar. It can be, it's often shown and done that way, but it doesn't have to be done like that. Personally, I'd rather use the inward hand to control my opponent's off-hand. Like that – Andrin, give me a jab."

Dredd leaned against the corner where the narrow corridor widened into the Raider Truck's main room to watch, and Anderson remained standing beside him. Except in training drills, she had never employed the split entry, not that she remembered. It was a relatively complicated defensive move, in comparison to others, combining a block with a simultaneous strike at the opponent that had to be directed under the blocked arm. Andrin's back partially covered what Gradgrind was demonstrating, but she was getting the idea, and it was definitely interesting and had never yet occurred to her.

"You see," Gradgrind continued, "I parry his first attack at the same time as forestalling the one that most likely follows. Any idea why I'd do that?"

Andrin laughed. "Because you don't want to eat my cross?"

"Because the opponent might have a knife," Thiago supplied from beside his brother. "From the cross you walk away, but maybe not from the knife."

Gradgrind gave him a jovial smile. "Smart boy, Thiago. Smart boy."

"Do you ever use that?" Anderson asked Dredd quietly.

"What, split entry?" He shot her a wry little grin. "Rarely, if ever. I simply block, then punch back hard. There are some who haven't walked away from _my_ cross."

* * *

High overhead, a lone surveillance drone circled, a bird with stiff wings of steel in the empty midday sky. After three slow rounds, it swerved sharply and turned away, its duty done.

Judge Barbara Hershey gave the images on her bike screen a cursory glance. They only confirmed what she had known already. Smiling grimly to herself, she activated the bike radio. "Hershey to Rankin. Councillor, do you read me?"

"Rankin here," a deep male voice came in reply.

"Clohessy Street all the way to Hobbit Junction. Riot Squad pulled out. We're ready."

There was a pause, then the voice answered, "Confirmed. Hold your position and stand by. Rankin out."

It took no more than forty seconds, then the first bomber screamed by low overhead. Swerving in a sharp arc, it dropped its load, which fell with that eerie howl that always made Hershey clench her teeth. Then the explosion sounded, just as a second and third bomber raced past over their heads. When their charges fell, Hershey would have liked to have additional ear protection; the helmet only muffled loud sounds so much. Underneath her feet, the ground shook faintly, and above her, the sky turned grey with rising dust, dust that would soon settle and cover them and their equipment with a thin layer that was hard to shake off. Some were already pulling their respirators from their belts, just in case.

Hopefully the rioters would realise they were beyond their last warning now. If the final decision had been up to Hershey, she would have picked something heavier than those lightweights that had just been dropped. But this was a concerted action, performed by seventeen units all along the riot belt across the Northern sectors.

"Satisfied?" a deep voice rumbled behind her. Turning, she encountered Finn Langley, Councillor Rankin's aide, standing there bolt upright as usual, his helmet under his arm. From the state of his receding grey-flecked hair, she could tell with certainty that he had worn it until a short time ago. Langley wasn't the only new arrival; Hershey's sentries at the alley entrance had allowed four more Judges to pass, who all stood lined up beside their bikes as if waiting for inspection. A very short, slim woman stood beside a broad-shouldered giant of a man, which made a slightly comical impression – Hershey was aware, though, that she wouldn't have looked much better next to him.

"I brought you another recon team," he said, following the turn of her head and guessing the direction of her gaze under the visor of her helmet. "Best infiltrators I could find, too. I'm sure you can put them to some use."

"So am I," Hershey replied dryly. "Thank you. They won't sit around idly here."

"I've been doing the circuit all morning," Langley told her, "taking a closer look at the situation, checking the morale, seeing how you lot are holding up. Mind if I take a look around?"

"Feel free, sir." It was an inspection, nothing less, even if he was unusually polite about it. But Hershey would have been a fool not to expect one, not after a handful of Judges had actually joined the riots the previous evening. Rumour had it that their commanding officer was on suspension, and the Judges themselves on their way to Titan already. "If I may voice a complaint, that sanitation wagon we were promised three hours ago still hasn't arrived."

"No?" A frown wrinkled the man's lean face. "I'll see to it right away." Speaking quietly into his glove communicator, he walked away, towards the temporary barricades.

"What, still no wagon?" Gibson complained. By the state of _his_ hair, he had not worn his helmet recently. "I have to go pee."

Behind her visor, Hershey rolled her eyes. "No good whining about it, diva." At least he was not demanding lunch this time, like the day before. "Behind the building, like everybody else. And put your helmet on _right now_, that's an order." Lunch? That was a good idea, actually. She had not eaten since the previous afternoon. "And while you're at it, Gibson, would you run over to Volkov's and get me a curry or something? And a fresh water bottle, please. _Before_ you pee, mind you. I don't want your unwashed hands on my lunch."

"I'm wearing gloves," Gibson pointed out.

"That doesn't make it any better. Run along now. Helmet first."

Wearing a ridiculously petulant expression that did not suit his handsome face at all, Gibson trotted off to retrieve his helmet from wherever he had left it. If Hershey hadn't been so tired, she might have laughed.

Maybe there was a chance for a little rest? She might just follow the example some from Riot Squad were giving her, sitting there dozing with their back to the wall. Since Langley knew as well as she did that some here had been on duty for seventy-two hours straight, without a visit to the sleep machine, she had let it pass. What kept some of those Judges and auxiliaries going were adrenaline pills, something their medics did not exactly approve of, but what else were they to do? She was keeping herself alert with caffeine, but some had used it so frequently already that it hardly affected them any longer. No matter how this ended, Hershey thought, eyeing the graffiti-covered wall opposite her bleakly, they were fighting a losing battle.

"Control to Hershey," a female voice spoke in her helmet receiver, "I have the data you urgently requested."

Hershey activated her glove comm. "Go ahead." When she realised she was holding her breath, she mentally shook her head at herself. There was no reason for this, none at all.

"Computer analysis of the Tobler brothers' exam results from the previous year show that Thiago's score is .52 points higher on average than Andrin's."

"He's pronounced An-_dreen_," Hershey said automatically. Strange name, that. She could not recall ever having heard it before. Who had named the boys?

"An-_dreen_'s," the voice corrected itself. "Sorry."

"Never mind." Who had named the Dredd boys, years before? "Do continue."

"The score difference between Rico and Joseph Dredd was 3.67 points on average for the respective same year."

Interesting. Very interesting. Could the Tobler brothers be even more similar to each other than the Dredd brothers had been? "Thank you. How about the personality profiles?" She doubted anyone would be able to make any sense of the part of the conversation they were hearing, but nonetheless Hershey sauntered away from the gaggle of Judges waiting for orders to arrive. "Do they match, respectively?"

"Not entirely," the answer came promptly, and once more Hershey realised with some irritation that she had been holding her breath. "Like Rico Dredd, Thiago Tobler seems more prone to take risks than his twin brother. We also have a formal reprimand on file against him, and none against his twin. However… when tested separately, Andrin Tobler seems to show more impulsiveness and overconfidence. When tested together, Thiago shows more."

Hershey frowned thoughtfully. "And you're sure they were identified correctly in all those tests?"

"Positive, Judge Hershey. They both have a chip implanted at the base of their cranium that allows certain identification. All clones do."

That was an interesting fact, one Hershey had never heard before. But it made sense. There were plenty of clones from some genetic sources, after all – the Tilman line alone had about twenty in active service, as far as she knew, and she had met more than one Drummond clone in Tek Division already –, and though the Hall of Justice tried to scatter them across the city, they still could pass as each other relatively easily if they wanted to. And if, one day, those clones should go into mass production to boost the Judges' ranks, the individual would be impossible to recognise if not for measures like this chip. Unless there would be no more individuals, of course, just units – an idea Hershey found rather unsettling.

"I could not access some of the files," the voice continued. "Some of them are classified. But I can transmit the rest to your bike, if you want me to."

"Yes, please," Hershey replied, pulling herself out of a vision of an army of identical Judges all wearing Joseph Dredd's trademark scowl. She would study those files, once she found the time for it. From the way the situation looked, it would not be any time soon, though. "Thank you for –"

"Attention, Judge Hershey," a male voice cut in from her inbuilt helmet receiver, one she immediately recognised as Rankin's. She was hearing a lot from him lately. "Rendezvous with Judge Miller's Manta unit on Somerset Junction at 13.00. Van Cleet block is to be made an example of. The means and methods are up to you."

"Understood," Hershey confirmed. With swift strides, she returned to her squad. Langley was currently inspecting the auxiliaries patiently waiting off to the side. "Alright, listen up," she announced with her voice raised, and immediately everybody's attention was on her. Twenty-nine Judges – minus Gibson, who had not returned yet – and forty-three auxiliaries. Very soon there would be more under her command. "We make for Somerset Junction in ten. Permission to take one bar from provision each until then. Norden," she directly addressed herself to a tall, bulky Judge nearby, "get the Pat-Wagons started. Yours at the front, the rest at the rear of the convoy."

At once their waiting site became an anthill of bustling and scurrying. But, as she noted much to her content, it was a very organised anthill.

* * *

"Radiation levels are rising," Patton reported from his usual seat at the Raider Truck's controls.

Dredd sat down beside him, and immediately Patton started pointing things out to him. It seemed to Anderson that Dredd was trying to learn how to operate the Landraider himself, just as if he feared to lose his entire crew in the course of the mission. It was a rather disconcerting thought, to say the very least.

In the meantime the twins, still in complete street gear, were grappling on the floor under Gradgrind's supervision. What was visible under the Judge's helmet bore a stern expression, but he showed considerable patience as he offered advice and corrected mistakes. Gradgrind must be a formidable opponent in hand-to-hand combat, Anderson thought. She strongly doubted she could best him, and she wondered if Dredd could. The boys were applying themselves hard, panting and grunting, but clearly this was not their combat discipline of choice – something Anderson understood only too well, she was not overly comfortable with fighting on the ground either. If the technical skills were equal, the ground belonged to the heavier fighter, as a general rule, so she did her best to avoid it.

This must be a difference between them and Dredd, it occurred to her. While they, for some reason, appeared to be small for their age, and therefore lighter than most of the other boys in their year – a fact that somewhat bothered them, apparently – he was above average in height, and his weight certainly worked to his advantage on the ground.

Why were they smaller? She had not noticed it from the beginning, not until she had practically stumbled upon it in the boys' minds. How could clones of the same man differ in size? Those two must have suffered from a defect, or been tampered with somehow. That would certainly explain their psychic abilities, too.

Leaning back in her seat at the tactical table, she let her gaze flicker to Spikes, seated opposite her. Cross-legged on the bench once again, Spikes was balancing a guitar, black slashed with brilliant red, on his knees. Anderson did not know much about guitars, but apparently this one was a p-cell powered model with inbuilt speakers, and the handful of small dials and switches on it seemed to regulate sound and volume. Apparently he had managed to acquire it at Deliverance. Contrary to her expectations, Dredd had not protested, though Gradgrind had grimaced faintly and muttered about storage space. The punk was plucking the strings gently with his eyes closed, playing a soothing tune she could not recall hearing before.

Maybe Dredd had not protested because he knew Spikes would be quiet when he played music?

"We've got another sandstorm coming," Patton announced to the others, and Spikes interrupted his playing and turned his head, just as the cadets on the floor desisted from each other. "Estimated time to hit, three minutes. Smaller than the last one, but a sandstorm still." He looked at Dredd, just like all did. "We've reached the beginning of the rise. Orders, sir?"

Dredd was quiet for a moment. "Continue, or seek shelter and sit it out? I say we continue. The muties won't hit us in a sandstorm. Gradgrind, your opinion?"

Anderson registered surprise in the veteran. "I concur. If we seek shelter now, we'll be munce ripe for plucking to them. They're bound to know every nook and cranny around here."

Dredd nodded. "Keep on going, Patton, at as fast a speed as you think safe. All the same, battle stations. Gradgrind, take the 'Dozer. Cadets, with him. Anderson, machine gun control." He nodded at the small console behind the cockpit, right in front of the cargo compartments on the right-hand side of the vehicle. "Spikes, stay where you are."

Ushering the twins towards the back, Gradgrind gave Spikes an unexpected little smile. "_Don't Fear The Reaper_? Really? Play something more cheerful. We're not in that much trouble yet."

_Yeah, _Don't Fear The Grinder_, how about that?_, Andrin suggested to his brother as they were marched into the Killdozer.

Anderson saw the idea blossoming up in Spikes's mind before he started playing. "_Hope you've got your things together, hope you're quite prepared to die, seems like we're in for nasty weather, one eye is taken for an eye…"_ He had a surprisingly good voice, fairly high and with a slightly smoky touch. "Better?" he called after Gradgrind's retreating armoured back.

"Not nearly," Gradgrind answered over his shoulder. Although she had known Dredd longer, it randomly occurred to Anderson, she might just have seen a far greater variety of facial expressions on the so stern-seeming Gradgrind by now. The thought made her smile as she went to her assigned seat and activated the Raider Truck's weapons control.

"Hey, Spikes," Patton suggested after a spell of shuffling and creaking of seats and uniforms, "can you play _Reckless Hearts_?"

"Sure." Spikes was so pleased he radiated it across the Raider Truck. Clearly he found it flattering that someone was actually taking interest in his musical skills. He plucked at the strings as if trying to remember the tune, then started strumming chords with more conviction. To Anderson, the melody sounded catchy, and also vaguely familiar. Could she have heard it before? A cadet at the Academy of Law had little chance to listen to music. The only time music had been played to them had been the warm-up phase of physical training. She had quite liked running and jumping to the beat, but it was pretty much her only experience with music. Had that song been played then, perhaps?

"Can you sing it too?" Patton asked. "No, hang on, transmission… It's Stacy!" Everybody fell silent as Patton switched the matching comm channel from his earpiece to the speakers. "Yes, Jack here, Stacy. You're coming through loud and clear. Sandstorm to hit within minutes, though, so make it quick."

"Right," Stacy Fredriksen's voice filled the cockpit. "Me and Stuart and Mike and a few others, we've been down to the dump. It's bigger than we thought. I think we smoked those mutie things out good, but... we found something, Jack. Some residue reading, ozone mainly, and when we located its place of origin... There was a thing, Jack. We have no idea what it was, but it was... we think it was communicating with the siren somehow. When we tried to trigger it, well, Stuart got it to work, at least kinda, and... You have to believe me, Jack. There was a glowing hole in the air, violet around the edges and crackling like electricity, smelling of ozone... Just a small hole, just for a moment, but... I don't believe in the supernatural and stuff, but that thing, that fucking thing..."

"A dimension portal," Patton said quietly, and suddenly the drone of the engines seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. Anderson felt an icy cold claw of steel grab her insides at the description. "Science has debated the possibility, but actually creating one… We don't have the technology for that."

Stacy cleared his throat. "You mean they first opened it from the other side?"

Anderson stopped listening. Something was swirling inside her, around her, rushing around her ears. She felt dizzy, and if she had not been sitting, she might have fallen. Leaning back, she tried to take deep, calming breaths, but still the Raider Truck's interior was swaying around her. When she closed her eyes to escape it, the nightmare sprang up before her inner eye once more, the approaching bubble of the dead grey world, coming closer, ever closer, and there was no stopping it –

The hand on her shoulder was a lifeline, pulling her back into focus. She could sense him behind her, and his presence seemed colourful and vivid to her, compared to the dead emptiness. "It need not concern you," Dredd said softly. "They'll send a team of scientists to investigate. And they'll close it up for good."

Anderson blinked. What had happened? Everything was back to normal, though she still felt shaken. Was that concern she was sensing? "Thank you," she murmured, briefly touching his gloved hand with hers. If she had not known better, she might have thought that he had read her mind. "It's…" He had been about to return to his seat, but now he stopped, and she could sense that he was watching her expectantly. Go on, then, say it! "It's just too much of a coincidence, first that dream, and now that… thing."

Dredd was silent for a little while, and when he spoke again, it was in a whisper. "Do you ever have dreams that come true?"

"Yes." Making that admission to him was a lot easier than she had thought it would. This was something she had never told anybody about, because she had feared it would sound foolish and silly. "Sometimes."

"Important things?" His hand was back on her shoulder. She must have been squirming a little, she realised, and felt the heat rush into her cheeks. "Things that would affect you or others?"

"Sometimes." It was hard to describe. "It's… it's erratic. Most of the time it's just little things. Like, something someone says to me the following day." Her eyes flitted over to Spikes, but the punk was listening to Patton's conversation with rapt attention, despite the fact that he probably did not understand half of the technical terms Patton and the repair shop owner were using. "Sometimes I don't even remember the dreams, until the thing I dreamed about happens. Sometimes I dreamed about a question or two in an exam." She smiled at that; she had achieved some of her better marks that way. But her smile vanished abruptly when it occurred to her that he might accuse her of cheating. "But I never dreamed about anything really important until now," she hastily added.

"Not about Peach Trees, either?"

"No, sir." It felt odd, addressing him that way after making such a personal confidence. "Nothing. No, wait… The wall panelling beside the elevator, the one time when you went scouting and I stayed with the prisoner… I think I dreamed about that."

He gave a soft chuckle. "Of all the shit you could have foreseen… And the only thing your dreams warn you about is bad interior decorating."

Despite everything, Anderson had to laugh at that. "Yeah, I guess it's a mostly useless talent, really." She felt much better now, and she could have hugged him for it, but she strongly doubted he would appreciate that. It probably was an unwritten rule from the regulations: One did not hug Judge Dredd under any circumstances.

In the meantime the transmission had ended. She had missed most of it, but Dredd was right, there was no need to concern herself with it, dimension portal or not. Control would send someone to help the people of Deliverance. No more monster rats. She and the others had passed on already.

Had the rats really come from another dimension? It was a very fantastical-sounding idea. But so was the whole concept of another dimension, to be honest. "Do you think the rats came through the hole, sir?"

Dredd shrugged, she could hear the creak of leather behind her. "Who knows? Could be they're just some mutated Cursed Earth critter. I once saw a praying mantis the size of a horse outside the city. Muties were frying it for dinner."

Anderson shuddered inwardly, but at the same time she detected something behind her, a faint… sparkle? "You're kidding me, right?" Kidding? Dredd? That was certainly new. Not that he had seemed completely humourless to her, but she had gotten the impression that what passed for humour with him was mostly sarcasm, with a sprinkle of cynicism strewn in.

The tiny sparkles around him intensified briefly, and when she turned around in her seat at last to face him, he was wearing a tiny little grin. "Maybe?"

"And here goes the sandstorm," Patton observed, interrupting their moment. Dredd straightened and strode over to sit down beside him once more, and Anderson returned her attention to her own console. All three machine guns were loaded and active, the large one beneath the cockpit as well as those on either side of the Raider Truck. She selected the heat-seeking targeting mode, but the aim screen remained empty. For now, there was nothing else she could do, except hope that the screen would stay that way.

"Spikes," Patton called over his shoulder, "you promised us _Reckless Hearts_, remember?"

"Oh, right." The punk laughed and started plucking at the strings again. "I'm not sure I remember the complete lyrics, but I'll give it a shot. All for you, Jacky boy."

* * *

By the time they reached the actual ascent to the pass, there was no point in looking out through the windscreen. Their going was slow, but at least there was bound to be no potential enemy lurking on the road, not when they had safe hideouts in the mountains. Dredd was somewhat undecided whether he wanted the storm to clear or to stay the way it was until they had left the pass behind.

Up on the saddle, the storm's intensity lessened. Dredd could glimpse flashes of rock around them again, though the sky retained the blurred khaki colour of masses of swirling sand on the wind. There was no need to tell Patton to pick up speed, the engineer accelerated of his own accord. The man was both competent and reliable, and he even had a decent taste for music, judging from the requests he made of Spikes. Well, most of the time, anyway; Dredd could have done without the love songs.

They had begun their descent when the radar sweep suddenly picked up a signal. Patton tapped the readout, and the screen displayed the sensors' analysis, updating it constantly. Frowning at it, Dredd pressed the button labelled SPEAK on the intercom controls on his side of the console. "Eyes on the radar, Gradgrind."

In the background, Spikes promptly ceased his rendition of the famous guitar solo from the Bugglies' _Pigs On Parade_. Tense silence filled the vehicle.

"I see it," Gradgrind replied grimly. "Armoured car, Invader type."

"Be ready to fire at my command." Hopefully it would not be necessary; they had been in plenty of trouble already and used a fair lot of their ammunition, too. But the way their luck had been going recently, they had better not count on a smooth and easy solution.

"It's moving to intercept," Patton observed. "And look, sir, there's more."

The engineer was right, several more dots were turning up on the display, at some distance still, but moving closer. The sandstorm was losing strength rapidly, but the sight was still obscured by a sandy haze lying over the road. The ground had become visible now, a hard-packed stretch of dirt and stone worn out by regular use, with sand partially covering it. Since the people of Deliverance stayed away from this area and there were no known settlements anywhere near the other side, it was clear they were in the heart of mutant territory now.

"How do they get those vehicles, anyway?" Patton asked. "They don't have the means to build them out here."

"They buy them," Dredd answered. "There's always some creep willing to do business with muties. And some tribes raid settlements, too. From the way Deliverance looks, with their guards and gunners, I'd say those are among them."

"I have a fix on an assault tank," Gradgrind's voice sounded from the intercom speakers. "Launcher locked on it. Just say the word."

"Hold it, but retain the lock." Gradgrind would not fire just yet, of course, but the hierarchy required Dredd to give an order, no matter if this was what Gradgrind would do anyway or not. Especially after what Anderson had told him. Naturally he had expected Gradgrind to not be happy with being placed under a much younger man with no experience in the heavy weapons division, apart from basic training, but knowing it for certain always made a little difference. How did Anderson know, had she read his mind? Probably. It did not really matter, anyway. If she said it was this way, then he believed her.

There were five vehicles on the readouts now, the armoured car, shown in a relatively clear diagnostics scheme, and four vague shapes further away, two behind it and one off to each side. It was an actual formation. "Which one's the tank?" Dredd asked Patton, since he could make little sense of the data around them. Tek babble, the street Judges called it.

Patton tapped the one to the right lightly. "That one, according to the weapons signature we're getting. Something of that calibre is not mounted on a truck."

Dredd squinted at the display, but could not make sense of what it said under _Weapons_. Well, that was what Tek Division was for. The two vehicles behind the one in front were turning into clearer shapes now, shapes that looked like jeeps. The sandy fog had not lifted yet, but it seemed to Dredd that there was some dark outline before them. "Slow down," he told Patton. "Monitor all frequencies and give us outside audio, in case they'll try to talk."

"Yes, sir." At least there was no need to assert his authority with the engineer. Contrary to popular belief, that was nothing he particularly enjoyed. "Sir, they just stopped."

"Hail them," Dredd decided. He would do this by standard procedure.

Patton flicked a switch beside him; he must be opening all short-range frequencies. "This is the Landraider. We request that you let us pass. We're on our way to Dunesea and mean you no harm."

There was no answer. "Maintain speed and try again," Dredd ordered after waiting for a little while. He could see the foremost car clearly now, with a machine gun mounted on the roof. Then he spoke into the intercom. "Gradgrind, stand by to open fire. Machine gun to car in front."

"Acknowledged," Gradgrind replied.

"This is the Landraider," Patton tried it a second time. "I repeat, we mean you no harm. But we will use force if necessary. Let us pass." By now there were approximately twenty meters between them and the first vehicle, and behind it the pair of jeeps was clearly visible now, each equipped with a mounted gun as well, manned by several dark shapes.

"Landraider," a sharp voice suddenly grated through the speakers, "prepare to be boarded. This is the Day of Atonement." There was a harsh cackle in the background, then the transmission was cut off abruptly.

Day of Atonement? Not another religious madman! Dredd gestured to Patton to open a channel for him. "This is your last warning. Stand aside, or we'll use force."

In response, the machine gun on the armoured car woke to life briefly, the bullets bouncing off the cockpit window harmlessly. Patton jumped in his seat; Dredd had expected something like that and did not twitch a muscle, except to reach for the speaker button. "Gradgrind, open fire. Anderson, stand by to fire at the two in the back."

The muted sound of the Killdozer's machine gun turrets told Dredd that Patton had deactivated the outside audio again. Good man. He had completely forgotten about it himself. The hail of bullets beat dents and holes into the car's shell and tore the front tyres to shreds.

"Tank's moving," Patton observed, at the same time as the jeep crews answered the Landraider's fire.

"Gradgrind," Dredd commanded, "launch that rocket. Anderson, fire." The car in front was retreating, but the others were coming closer now, converging on them, and bullets rained down on the Landraider from all sides, plinging off the outer hull.

"Sir," Gradgrind's voice sounded. It was the first time he called Dredd that. "I suggest we uncouple the modules." The rocket whistled over the cockpit, a streak of blinding light that exploded into a ball of brilliant shades of yellow interwoven with threads of black that faded out, rising towards the sky as charcoal-coloured smoke.

"Agreed." Asserting one's authority was one thing, but being foolish and not listening to an experienced veteran's advice was another. Especially if it made perfect sense. "Take command of the 'Dozer. Patton, start the uncoupling protocol." According to the readouts, the tank was still moving slowly, but not firing any longer.

"Commencing procedure. Separation in five… four… three…" Dredd could hear the sound of the hatch closing and sealing itself. "Two… one…" There was a jolt as Patton had the Raider Truck jump forward. "Separation complete."

A small screen directly above the console lit up, showing the two modules' positions in relation to each other. The Killdozer was swinging left, doubtlessly to have a clear line of fire at the tank at their right, and Patton guided the Raider Truck towards the right, the upper two machine guns blazing. Anderson had locked them onto the jeeps correctly; their guns had fallen silent again, a twisted, bleeding shape hanging over the side of one of them. The armoured car in front was still firing, though its crew seemed undecided whether to target the Truck or the Killdozer.

This was going relatively well until now.

"Request permission to pursue the enemy on our left," Gradgrind asked.

"Granted," Dredd replied to him. "But one rocket to the one in front first. Anderson," he continued, letting go of the intercom button, "how many inside that one?"

"The one in front?" Anderson asked, just as the second rocket streaked by overhead to envelop it in a fireball and then flames. Another explosion tore off part of the hull, dust and glowing bits of metal debris raining down onto the Raider Truck's cockpit. "None, as of just now." The charred ruin kept on burning, dancing flames framing its blackened outline.

"Good." Dredd glanced at the Killdozer's movements on the screen. "Patton, channel." He waited for the engineer to flick the switch, then said, "To those of you left alive: Run for it. Run as fast and as far as you can, and don't stop, because I might yet change my mind and come after you to kill you all."

They did. One of the jeeps turned and sped down the mountain road, a body falling off the open back as it did and landed sprawled in the middle of the road, dust rising in thin curtains around it. The Killdozer rolled right over it as it chased the last vehicle, another armoured car, further down the rise towards the crater beyond. Slowly and clumsily, the heavily damaged tank turned back into the side path whence it had come, leaving its massive gun turret behind by the roadside. Their rocket launcher truly was a useful weapon to have.

"I guess that did it," Spikes remarked. "Nice speech, Judgey."

"Cease fire," Dredd commanded. Whoever they were, they had been driven off effectively. "We'll re-couple once we're down. Gradgrind, take the lead."

"Yeah," Patton agreed with Spikes, "those fuckers are done for."

Dredd watched the quickly receding dots on the screen before him. "For now," he said.

* * *

_The songs used are Blue Öyster Cult, _Don't Fear the Reaper_ and Creedence Clearwater Revival, _Bad Moon Rising_._ Reckless Hearts_ is no existing song. The Bugglies are a band in the comics, and they have a song named _Pig_._  
_Imagine Spikes to sound like Bon Jovi._


	8. The Metal Tree

_**Author's Note:  
**__Thank you for all the feedback! You guys are awesome! (Except the one complaining, yet again, about a Doctor Who related topic, of all things. That was just plain WTF.)  
And my apologies this took so long. This chapter turned out a lot longer than I expected; it's the longest up to date._

_Since some have asked about Rico by way of PM: He has his own Wikipedia page by now (just type in "Rico Dredd")... but if you would rather see my own take on him, there's a one-shot centred on him right here, on this site. It takes place a few days before this story, so one might consider it a tie-in. (No, that's not shameless self-advertising. That's a note on continuity. ... Alright, maybe it _is_ shameless self-advertising. I'll shut up now.)_

This chapter is dedicated to a certain animal with a long neck who is not on this planet currently. You know who you are. ;-)

* * *

**8. The Metal Tree**

They re-coupled the modules on an even spot halfway down. During the procedure, which required some precision in steering, Anderson gazed out through the windscreen at the crater ahead. It was vast, at least a mile in diameter, if not more, doubtlessly torn by a nuclear explosion of immense power. Radiation levels were still high outside, according to the readouts. Being encased in a thick metal hull limited her abilities, but she was fairly certain that there was no life nearby, none at all. The mutants had fled back into the mountains, and apart from them, nothing lived here.

Something suddenly occurred to her, and she sat down opposite Spikes at the tactical table. "Say," she addressed him, "you've been here before, right? How did you manage to cross this pass unharmed?"

Guitar still balanced on his knees, he shrugged. "Didn't. One time I went around the area – cost me a fat lot of time – and the other I flew over it, all the way to Dunesea."

"So you don't know the place we're going right now," she deducted.

"Not really," he admitted. "Would be a bit much to ask, don't you think?"

Anderson shrugged. From what Dredd said, Spikes knew an amazing lot of the Cursed Earth, not only the relatively radiation-free corridor they were currently travelling – the stress was on _relatively_, here –, but also part of the occasionally inhabitable expanses further north and south. But one man could hardly know the entire vastness of what had once been America. "I guess." After the attack, she would not have braved this pass without a heavily armoured and armed assault vehicle either.

Spikes returned to playing his new guitar as Patton chose a course around the south side of the crater, and Anderson decided to do something she had postponed until now and have a word with the twins. After all, this was a special mission Chief Judge Goodman herself had assigned to her.

The pair of them was lurking in the narrow corridor between the bunks, while Gradgrind had remained in the Killdozer, so Anderson decided to usher them into their bunk and closed the door behind her. Nervous glances went back and forth between the boys, but they knew better than to communicate telepathically with each other in her presence.

"Sit," she told them, and they sat down on one of the narrow beds obediently. How did they both fit into it? After a moment's hesitation, she sat down herself opposite them, on the rumpled bed that must be Spikes's. Monitoring their minds closely, she could detect a small difference once again: Thiago seemed more nervous and jumpy, Andrin a little more sullen, though they both felt rather similar, as usual. "How long have you known you're psychics?" she started out straight away.

Another look at each other, then Thiago said, "I don't know what you're talking about." There was a brief flare-up of... something in Andrin at that, but it was gone so quickly that she could not quite say which emotion it had been. Nervousness? Anger?

_Don't play games with me._ She let her voice ring thunderously in the twins' heads, and they winced quite satisfactorily. Their dark eyes were wide, despite their efforts to control their features. Younger versions of Dredd, she reminded herself. "I can tell you apart, you know. I know what you're thinking, and I really doubt you know how to block me out of your heads." Enough intimidation for now. If she was to work with them, she would have to win their trust, too. "It took me a while to realise what I could do. Mostly because I didn't want to be a mutant, I guess. At the Academy, I first kept it secret. More, I didn't use my powers at all at first, or at least tried not to. But then... I told Instructor Pepper." She fondly remembered the grizzled old veteran, one of the kindest men she had ever met. "I'm not sure what made me do it, but it was the right thing to do, I guess." It must have been the fact that he had openly voiced criticism about the treatment of assimilated mutants, but she had trusted him before that already. "He encouraged me to train myself, to test my limits and expand them. You could say he set me on my path." How she wished he could see her now! His death three years ago had been a heavy blow to her; many cadets had been saddened at the loss of one of their most popular instructors, but she had been truly devastated.

"We remember Pepper," Thiago said. "He was really nice." Andrin nodded to that.

Yes, everybody had liked Instructor Pepper. She had not been the only cadet who had cried at his funeral. "Eventually he told the Chief Judge about me." Hearing that had been a major shock to her, and when the summons to the Chief Judge's office came... For a moment she had honestly believed she had just had a heart attack; she still was a bit embarrassed about that and glad that nobody would ever find out. "And the Chief Judge thinks I have very useful skills." She gave the boys watching her attentively – and a little warily – a small smile. "And so do you."

Again they exchanged a glance. If they kept it up, there might be some kicking of shins, Anderson thought, looking down at her booted feet on the floor. It wasn't easy to avoid stepping on Spikes's spare blanket and shoes, and she sincerely hoped those socks and underwear weren't dirty laundry. Maybe Dredd would have something to say about this? At last Andrin spoke up. She had been wondering whether it would be him this time. "We could always read each other. As long as we can remember. But we never told anyone."

Anderson decided to be honest with them. "Well, some people suspected." The detail she did not know herself; Dredd might, since he was personally involved in the clone project, one could say, but she only knew very little about it. "I'm the only one who knows." Not true, Dredd did, too, though she had not intended to tell him the night before. "And we'll keep it that way for now."

"Yes, please," Thiago implored her immediately. "They'll think we're freaks, and they'll –"

Andrin touched his brother's arm, brushing his mind gently at the same time. Thiago fell silent, and Andrin continued smoothly, "We'd be much obliged if you would."

She would not be allowed to keep anything to herself, so Anderson chose to change the topic. "I can help you. Teach you, even."

Once again they looked at each other, and the sudden look of excitement on their faces was mirrored by a bright glimmer within them, flickering around them. "You would?" Thiago asked, scepticism fading fast to enthusiasm.

This was easier than she had expected. "Yes, I would." Of course, part of the boys' reason to want to spend time with her alone were her bodily attributes, as she picked out from their thoughts and emotions easily, but she would have to live with that. She could. It was not the first time by far someone looked at her that way. "So, of all the Landraider's crew, who is easiest to read?"

"The others?" Thiago shook his head. "We can't."

"It doesn't work that way," Andrin agreed. "Only with each other."

"Have you tried?" Anderson asked.

"Plenty of times," Thiago assured her.

"If you close your eyes," she insisted, "don't you sense others around you, if you concentrate?"

"No. We only see each other," Thiago said. "It's dark, but I see him like a bright light, no matter where he is. I can find him from ten floors away."

Now this was interesting. Anderson had never yet tried to find a specific person at such a distance. She would have to give it a try once she was back at the Hall of Justice, but with all the many buzzing minds inbetween, she wondered if she could do it at all. "Well, let's not give up so soon," she encouraged the boys. "When I was your age, I was still getting stronger. Let's practise a little, shall we?"

They were doubtful, but cooperated readily enough. It was hard for Anderson to hide her own excitement; this was the first time she got to work with other psychics, even if they claimed their abilities only worked on each other. She had them close their eyes and calm their minds, and then try and open up to the minds around them, but as she closed her own eyes and watched them fumble about, it seemed that there was only one direction the pale tendrils of their awareness went: towards each other. They tried and tried, and in the end she even tugged at them, but it was as if an invisible barrier were between their minds and hers, one only she could cross. Maybe they were right, she had to concede. But maybe not. Maybe they were just too attuned to each other to easily find anyone else to connect with. She would not give up on them just yet.

Before they grew too frustrated, she decided to give them something else to do, something they might enjoy. "Close your eyes and watch," she told Thiago and gently planted an idea into Andrin's head, a small seed inserted into his sensory input that opened up and grew. It was a very simple illusion, one she would be able to maintain for a few minutes, just the image of a dark room – the same she had used on their prisoner at Peach Trees.

Andrin blinked, confused. "You're doing something, right?" he asked uncertainly.

"Something popped up in your head," Thiago informed him promptly. "A... thing. Dunno what it is, but one moment it wasn't there, then suddenly it was." Opening his eyes, he added in Anderson's direction, "You put it there, sir, right?"

"I did," Anderson confirmed. Being called "sir" still was a thrilling experience. "Andrin, pretend you don't know I'm interfering. Trust me," she added as she felt his hesitation flicker up, "I'm not going to harm you."

Andrin took a deep breath, closed his eyes and opened them again, and when he did, they were out of focus, roving from side to side.

"It's bigger now," Thiago observed promptly, his eyes still closed. "It's filling his head, no, I mean, it's... it's covering him. Yeah, I guess that's the word."

This was working pretty well. Anderson smiled as she watched her grain bursting into bloom. "The important thing is..." No, better demonstrate. "Keep on watching. Andrin... It's not real. Concentrate on that."

Andrin's eyes returned into focus, just as Thiago exclaimed, "It's dissolving! It's gone!"

Anderson watched until the thin grey smoke remaining had dissipated completely and Andrin's mind was clear once more. Maybe the boy could not reach out beyond his own mind, except to his brother's, but he certainly knew how to control what was going on in his head, something she was not sure she was particularly good at herself. Of course, being in constant mental contact with someone else would have heightened the twins' sensitivity to trespassers in their head immensely. "The trick is to know how the mind works," she explained. "All I did was plant a suggestion. A seed. But because the mind accepts what's put before it, he automatically believed it, and it grew. All I did was nudge him in the direction I wanted him to go."

"And if I fight you?" Andrin demanded, his voice filled with both eagerness and challenge. Right then, Anderson had no trouble at all imagining him as a younger version of Dredd.

"Then I would have to work against you, which would be much harder." She had rarely ever tried this – the one time in Peach Trees block mainly, carefully experimenting on her sleeping roommate hardly counted – but she was fairly convinced that she knew how this worked. With the twins at her disposition, she might get a lot of chances for experiments. "We can try it if you –"

The Landraider gave a violent jolt, then stopped, shuddering, despite its engine's drone rising to a roar.

On her feet at once, Anderson rushed out, the twins closely at her heels. "Standing by to fire," Gradgrind's voice came from the intercom speakers as they arrived at the cockpit.

Still sitting beside Patton, Dredd turned his head at their arrival. "Anderson," he said simply, "who's this?"

"Who?" Anderson brushed Spikes aside and looked out through the moulded bullet-proof glass between the two seated men.

She knew immediately who Dredd was referring to. In the meantime they had left the vast crater behind and were travelling more or less even desert by now, interrupted by the occasional rock formation, but ahead of them was a ring of what she recognised as radiation binders, twisted white pillars rising straight into the pale blue sky, with an island of green at some distance behind them. Small houses, little more than huts, were crowded around it, one of them directly ahead. Before it, maybe twenty metres away, Anderson saw a slim young man clad in drab clothes of white, one hand extended towards the Landraider. His posture spoke of great strain. "Shit," she breathed, understanding the implications.

"Yeah," Dredd agreed grimly. "Tell him if he doesn't let us go immediately, we'll try if he can stop bullets."

Biting her lip nervously, Anderson reached out to the white-clad youth. Could this be true? His mind was clear and bright, so very bright...

A tendril of liquid light touched her, brushed over her awareness gently. _You're one of us_, a bodiless voice whispered in her head. _Forgive me. I didn't realise._

_We're not here to hurt you_, she told him, forming the words in her head. He could read them in her mind; she could feel him in there, too strong, too dazzling to be pushed out. _We're Judges from Mega-City One. On our way to Mega-City Two, because –_

_I know_, he interrupted her gently. _I'm sorry._ _I'll let you go in a moment. You might want to stop the engines._

_OK_, she agreed, _thanks_. He did not feel malevolent in any way, not in the slightest. "Patton, shut off the engines," she said. "He's releasing us."

Patton only stared, and at once it came back to Anderson that he had no idea of her powers – or had had, anyway, now he probably knew. They all did, most likely. They knew she was a mutant, just like those in the mountains. They knew. The sinking feeling she had always gotten when she knew for certain she had failed a test returned to her, but with tenfold force. She opened her mouth, felt her lower lip shake, had no idea what to say –

"Do as she says," Dredd commanded, and Patton obeyed. Outside, the white-clad young man's arm fell down to his side, and his shoulders slumped forward in exhaustion. "Is he hostile?"

It took Anderson a moment to react. "What? Oh, yes, he's not, no." That must have sounded downright stupid. "He thought we were here to harm them... whoever they are." Behind the white-clad one, others were now turning up, some of them rushing towards him, some staying back warily.

"Then go talk to him," Dredd ordered. "Patton, door."

Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue nervously, Anderson obeyed. She had not known psychics with such powers existed, had not even thought it possible. This was a day of revelations, it seemed, first a portal to another dimension, whoever had opened it and then handed over control of the technology to a madman, and now a mutant who could stop the Landraider in its tracks with the power of his mind. Apparently she was not the only telepath ever encountered, according to what she had been told, but she had always been under the belief that she was the most powerful psychic known. Well, clearly Mega-City One had never heard of this young man.

But to be honest... she should have expected it. After all, she had known there were plenty of mutants out in the Cursed Earth, and if those mutants multiplied, wouldn't their children's powers grow stronger? It stood to reason.

That Dredd leapt down onto the sandy ground after her was reassuring. In full uniform, including his helmet, of course, he clearly was representing the city he served. Anderson briefly wondered whether she should go back for her own helmet, but decided against it. With another psychic to face, she preferred to have her full abilities, no matter what the other's intentions were.

As she and Dredd walked towards them, a handful of them approached slowly, coming to meet them, but hesitant. She felt eagerness ahead of her, but also nervousness, suspicion and a touch of fear, all mingled together, and that one mutant's very presence blurred the others', nearly drowning out their minds in his sheer radiance.

They met by a strange object, something like a tree made of scrap metal, rusty in places, one of its branches in danger of falling off. Compared to the ring of well-kept radiation binders and the handful of neat-looking huts by the edge of the patch of green, it seemed oddly out of place. The shadow of one of its twisted branches fell across Dredd's protective vest as he stopped. Up close, Anderson could see that the young man and the three with him, two men and one woman, were indeed mutants; their eyes were tilted and closer together than they should be, their noses short and small, their arms relatively long in proportion, and at least the tall man on the far right, who had his hands clasped in front of his body, had additional joints in his thumbs. The white-clad young man was even younger than she had expected, probably younger than she was herself. Lanky and pimply-faced, he was wearing a nervous smile on his narrow face that did not make his unusual facial features any better-looking, but... it almost seemed to her that there was a dim glow around him.

And yet he was impossible for her to read.

One of the mutants, the eldest man, grey-haired and with a nose so small his face seemed a little empty, was about to address Anderson, but the woman touched his arm. If Anderson saw correctly, she had an additional finger on that hand. "He is the leader," she said quietly.

"But she speaks for him this time," the lanky youth pointed out. "He trusts her completely, though he's a norm and she's a mutie." The tall man gave a small sound of surprise at that.

Anderson could feel a reddish surge of anger in Dredd at being read so openly, so she hastily addressed the strange group. She did not know what was appropriate in this situation, but she had to try before Dredd got a chance to be rude. "Hello, my name is Cassandra Anderson." They probably knew that already. Unless she was much mistaken, both the woman and the eldest among the men man were psychics, though in his case she was not entirely sure; if he was a psychic, then he was a weak one. "We carry the cure for a plague to Mega-City Two." They knew that as well. "We did not mean to bother you, we are just passing through. If we scared you, we apologise."

"You are welcome here," the grey-haired man replied. "Our food and water are yours, if you have need of them. I am called Novar, and these are my daughter, Cerise, and my grandson, Morris." The white-clad young mutant flashed Anderson a bright, yet at the same time slightly awkward smile. "And this is Cato." The tall man gave her a curt nod; he was still radiating suspicion, a pale glimmering that outlined him. "We rarely get visitors here, not since the mountain clans joined up and got aggressive." His manner of speech was oddly slurred; Anderson wondered whether it was the local accent or just a speech impediment.

"Thank you," Anderson said, surprised at this friendly welcome. "But we won't keep you long. And we don't mean to take anything away from you."

"Oh," Novar said, "we have plenty. That's the largest farm within sixty miles, that is. Melons, apples, tomatoes, beans, cucumbers, potatoes, pineapples – if we get the temperature control to work, that is – and munce, of course, in all colours, shapes and sizes."

"Got violet munce," the tall mutant – Cato – added proudly. "Really tasty, too."

"It comes in violet?" Anderson asked before she could stop herself. She knew what the fruit usually looked like, but had never seen one for real, only the products made from it, from juice – either yellow and sticky sweet or red and a little more sour – to bakery and, of course, nutritional bars and chewing gum. She cleared her throat, detecting a mild grey prickle of disapproval from Dredd, and added, in the boy's direction, "You called me one of you, just now. What did you mean, when those you were expecting are, you know..." There was no way past saying it. "Mutants, too?" she finished, feeling awkward. At least Dredd was the only one among her companions who could hear her.

"Oh." The young mutant gave her a little smile. "One of the good guys, you know."

"Out here, there's just two categories of people," his grandfather added. "Friends, and enemies. Ever since we started taking in norms, the mountain muties have been targeting us." Behind them, Anderson now saw children moving at the edge of the green zone, probably watching their unexpected visitors along with the adults.

"With your permission," Dredd broke in, "we will be checking for damage and making repairs here. We had a brush with those mountain muties of yours just now, so I guess you can consider us friends. Did them a whole lot more damage than they did us," he added, probably to quench the worry that was at once clearly showing on the mutants' slightly twisted faces.

"You are welcome to stay," Novar repeated. "For as long as you like."

* * *

Cursing his helmet in the sweltering heat, Dredd was leaning against a tall, slender palm tree and idly chewing on a slice of firm orange munce. Despite his relaxed attitude, he was fully alert and wary as ever. Those mutants seemed friendly enough, and Anderson confirmed they were, but she also admitted that there were at least five among the population with stronger powers than hers, not to mention that boy Morris, and a psychic of such strength should easily be able to fool a weaker psychic, Dredd suspected.

Their farm truly was large, it probably deserved to be called a plantation. The briefing folder had merely listed a nameless settlement with mutant inhabitants that traded in agricultural produce. It did not mention that they had considerable technology at their disposal – they even had a weather shield against sandstorms and the rare, but devastating firestorms, its dull grey pillars, fat cylinders peaking up out of the crowns of the trees, dotting the farm's grounds – and supplied not only Dunesea, but also Texas City. A ring of light forest, occasionally interspersed with small white houses and moisture traps, surrounded acres of orchards, which in turn surrounded several fields and, at their very centre, an impressive palace of a greenhouse. Dredd had only seen it from some distance, from amid the oddly twisted dark munce trees, he had been reluctant to stray too far from the others, but he had had to hide his astonishment. And close to three hundred inhabitants, as Novar – something like the settlement's mayor apparently – claimed, were also around two hundred more than he had expected.

Patton had parked the Landraider in the shadow of the decorative trees surrounding the planting area and was checking the hull with pedantic care, employing several scanning devices as well as the maintenance robot. While the lush green around them clearly had filled him with awe, nothing could distract him from his work. Nearby Spikes sat with his back against another tree, playing the guitar for a gaggle of farm folk, both mutants and ordinary humans, as it appeared. Of course the punk had wanted to wander off, but Dredd had wisely forbidden it before he tried.

What drew an even larger audience, though, was Gradgrind instructing the boys in the use of their knives. They had started out with a few simple drills with sticks, then moved on to disarming techniques, and after a while Gradgrind had had them switch weapons and practise the very same techniques, only modified for knives. He would have made a fine instructor at the Academy, Dredd observed, patient, but strict. Maybe one day, when his days of active service were over, Gradgrind would really teach cadets. Or else, he mused as Gradgrind went over to a pair of mutant boys with overlarge ears and hunched shoulders trying to copy the twins and corrected their stances, which in turn inspired several others to spontaneously participate in the lesson, else he might choose to take the Long Walk to bring the art of hand-to-hand combat to the Cursed Earth. The man was a born teacher, and Dredd was quite grateful; he had feared he would have to supervise the cadets or even participate in their education, something he had been trying hard to avoid. It wasn't that he wanted nothing to do with cadets in general – he had been assigned the role of assisting officer in cadets' so-called Hotdog Run several times already and had even led it himself once, and he had assessed several rookies – but rather the fear of recognising Rico in one of them. What would the Hall of Justice do when history repeated itself?

"So your cousin took to the mountains and became all savage," he summed up what Novar had just told him, in between bites. That mutant tended to use twice as many words as necessary.

Novar nodded; he could see it from the corner of his eye. "Morgar is trouble. Always was. Last I heard, he'd united three clans behind him to raid the larger settlements beyond the mountains. Seems they even tried Deliverance, though that must have been a while ago, they were beaten back then. I doubt those townsfolk still could, now they're so many. That must be the reason they haven't been around here much lately. They're about to crack Deliverance."

Can't have that, Dredd thought grimly. Not after all the trouble we took to clean it up. But returning to the mountains to hunt the mutants down... It would mean that they had to meet the mutants in their own domain, their own familiar terrain. This time they had won relatively easily, but next time it might not go so well. Who knew what else those clans had up their ragged sleeves? Aloud, he asked, "But they came here too, you say?"

"Aye, they did." Novar spat. "Soon as Morgar joined up, here they were, fifteen of them, near enough, making demands for food and women. We sent them off, they came back, we sent them off again... Nuisance, nothing more. Until they saw the norms. Then they really started threatening us. Purging, atonement and all. The Day of Atonement, that's their new catchphrase."

Yes, Dredd thought, we've heard that before. "But you got rid of them that time, too," he assumed, chewing. "Or the kid did, did he?" Gradgrind had discarded helmet and vest and was currently explaining to a handful of teenage girls how to strike with a stick. Laughing, they let their branches and broomsticks whistle through the air, and Gradgrind seemed to be having a good time, too. But despite the veteran's apparent calm, Dredd refused to allow himself to relax.

The grey-haired mutant sighed deeply. "That's the trouble, Judge, see. I don't want Morris involved in any of this. But he's the strongest of us by far. Cerise, she's good, but all she ever could was make things twitch, or move a little bit maybe. Morris, now... Never seen the like. There's twenty-eight of us with the gift here. I have it myself, barely. To read, I have to touch. My wife, God rest her soul, had it stronger than me. My sons and Cerise got it, of course, and her man had it, but Morris..."

"Third generation," Dredd stated. "You're breeding it. Intentionally or not, you're breeding psychics." Considering what Anderson had told him, now... Their outer appearance was unfortunate, of course, but hidden under a helmet... "There might just be a place for the likes of you in the city." If Chief Judge Goodman had seen an asset in Anderson before the girl had even had a chance to prove herself, what would she have to say to this boy Morris?

And would she want to breed her shiny new department of psychics, or would they simply fill Doctor Judd's cloning tanks?

A frown creased Novar's forehead deeply, more deeply than it was natural, as it seemed to Dredd. "They don't want us muties in your city, Judge," he pointed out.

"In your case, they'll overlook your status. And you'd be surprised what surgery can fix." Dredd was not sure exactly if these mutants could be given normal faces, let alone if their arm length could be reduced a little, but was convinced that the doctors the Hall of Justice employed could make it less obvious. Novar still looked doubtful, though, and the decision in that matter lay with the Chief Judge anyway, so instead he said, "But we were discussing Morgar. What else about him?"

* * *

"Can you feel her?" Morris asked quietly.

Anderson nodded without opening her eyes. Her hand rested in soft fur; it made the contact easier, especially with a mind structure she was not used to. "Her name is Cherry," she said. Slipping into the centre of shapes and colours that held the identity was relatively easy, but what she found there was difficult to interpret, despite it all being as invitingly open as no human mind she had ever probed had been – Morris's had even been closed entirely. Scents and sounds exploded in her awareness with an intensity unknown to her. "She belongs to..." It was hard to tell; the image of the man was mostly formed from his scent and the sound of his voice, his outer appearance relatively vague to her. She cautiously nudged the notion, and it provided a little more information, though once again hard to interpret. "He came from some way away with her. From the north, I think. She was sick then, nauseous, losing her hair. Her skin itched." The feeling made Anderson's own skin crawl. Radiation sickness, most likely. There were regions further north so irradiated that they had been declared out of bounds to humans. Maybe some mutants still lived there; she did not know. Images flashed and were gone, but she could hardly make sense of any of them. Could she delve further down? There was no obvious way, not like the one she knew with humans. Accessing the outer regions had been extremely easy, probing into the centre not hard either, but now she met with considerable difficulties. Images and colours were swirling around her as she carefully tried to push through, sensations she scarcely understood sprang up all around her, filling her with a confusing multitude of information that mostly was unintelligible. "She likes stale bread," Anderson picked out, but there was little else she understood. She opened her eyes again. "I give up," she said.

Her chin on her front paws, the shaggy brown dog with the large ears was blinking up at her sleepily.

Morris was smiling. It did not make his disproportioned features any prettier, but it made him very likeable. "You're a natural with animals. It took me much longer to learn that."

Anderson shook her head in disbelief. Someone of his immense power? "Really?"

Morris laughed. "Really. I swear."

They were both sitting cross-legged on the grass amid the trees surrounding the farmland, just a short distance away from the Landraider. When Anderson turned her head, she could see Patton climbing around on the Raider Truck's roof with a scanning device, while Gradgrind, assisted by the twins, was amusing himself with teaching the farm's inhabitants, normal humans and mutants alike, some of the Academy's standard practise drills with sticks. Apparently this was someone whose opinion she would not have to worry about, now he knew she was a mutant too, and she was glad for it – so glad that she almost forgave him for calling her infatuated with Dredd. Almost.

"That metal thing outside, by the rad binders," she asked, "what's that? It looks like a tree."

"It is," he replied. "I mean, it's supposed to be. I built it. In memory of all the living things that died out here, when the bombs fell."

Anderson nodded slowly. There was little she could say to this. A large part of the continent had died back then. A large part of the world. Morris had never seen the old world, just like her, but out here in the Cursed Earth, the feeling of loss must be so much greater than in the city. The farm was a garden of green in all its many shades, but beyond it, the land wasn't even inhabitable.

The dog yawned hugely and rolled over onto her side.

Did Dredd remember the world before the war? He probably did, but he must have been a child back then. Standing there in the shadow near the Landraider in full street uniform, it was hard to picture him as a child.

Morris followed the glance she threw over her shoulder. "You have a special connection with that one man," he observed quietly." Joe Dredd. Your commander. But it seems you hardly know him."

Had he read her mind? She had not felt him brush it, but maybe he was powerful enough to do it without her feeling it? After all, every time she tentatively probed in his direction, she hit a wall. "Well, I..." Anderson was not sure what to say. A connection? What did it mean, anyway? Was it a two-sided mental bond, if any such thing existed, or just a polite way of saying she was hero-worshipping him far too much, or maybe – she feared she blushed at that thought – that she was, like Gradgrind had called it, infatuated? "I like him. I care for him, you could say. He's... he's something like a friend, I think. Or I hope he will be." That had sounded far too much like a silly little girl clumsily denying her crush.

"He cares for you, too," Morris said earnestly. "In his own way. He is surprisingly hard to read, for a norm."

The smile came all by itself, and Anderson had a hard time chasing it off her face again. She feared she was grinning like crazy. He cared for her. He liked her. He liked her!

And she was acting like a silly cadet once again. Ashamed of her reaction, she changed the topic. "Say, do you ever get prophetic dreams?"

"You mean like, dreams of the future?" Morris nodded emphatically. "All the time. Sometimes I can't make sense of them. They're all images, you know, like glimpses, just a moment taken out of time. Sometimes I get them when I'm awake, too. When I concentrate hard on someone." He gave her a bright smile. "Do you want me to try it on you?"

"Sure." It was the first time he asked, instead of simply accessing her mind, but it did not bother her much. There was so much she might learn from this boy! "How is it done?"

He raised his shoulders a little. "Oh, I just look at someone. Like at you, now. But kinda... past him." His eyes, an unusual shade of light brown she was tempted to call beige, slid out of focus a little. "Like that. And then I see..." He hesitated, and she could sense the dim flicker of his unease. "There's darkness before you. I've never yet seen the like. But you can fight it. You must, I think. There's..." His brow furrowed deeply. "There's shapes in the darkness. Four." He shivered and tried to hide it, but Anderson detected it around him, jitters of icy blue across her sense of him, and she felt as if those shivers ran straight on into her. "But there's light behind them. You can win this." His voice firmed as a small smile appeared on his face. "You will. Looks like you'll be quite the celebrity after it... though... no, I can make no sense of it. Just images. A gate that opens, with only stars behind it. Him, your friend Dredd, standing over you with a burning trident." Excitement pulsed around him, bright and warm; this was the first time he saw a trident outside an old illustrated storybook filled with the epics from Greek mythology – he was containing his mind no longer now, and the notion floated over to her on a filigree bridge of threads like spun moonlight. "I see a shrine of glass, like a tomb... There's a woman, a black woman with short hair... a Judge, I think... your Chief Judge... she holds out her hand to you, but there's a shadow behind her... A hovercar. Wow." He laughed quietly. "What a city. And a man who's half machine and really angry." The bridge quivered as his surprise and wonder came through to her. "It's your friend again, but now there's two of him... Weird... You'll live in a big place with a transparent roof, some time from now. It's really neat." He blinked, and his eyes returned to focus on her, just as the bridge dwindled and was gone. "That's all, I think."

"Can I learn that?" Anderson asked. She had already given up on the telekinetic tricks, more or less, after she had tried and tried under the boy's direction. But maybe she stood a chance with this.

"I dunno," Morris answered honestly. "Doesn't work all that well for me, really. You saw it, most of it makes no sense, and it won't answer actual questions I have. And I can't really do it for myself."

Should she ask him about her dream, about the dead world merging with the living? She wanted to, but suddenly she was afraid to. Morris had spoken of darkness ahead... but he had not mentioned another world or a portal to one, and if there would be one, he would have seen it... or would he?

Very suddenly Morris sat up straight, and the dog tensed with him, raising her shaggy head. "There's something coming," Morris breathed. "Something..." At once he was on his feet and running, with the dog bounding behind him in long leaps, radiating excitement Anderson could read only too easily. The grass rustled beneath her feet as she got up; she felt that that detail would remain imprinted in her memory with absurd clarity.

Already Morris had reached the Landraider, and she followed slowly, like in a daze. Darkness. Darkness was coming for her. When she started running, it was not because she feared to miss something – even at a saunter, she would not miss much – but because she could not bear to be alone in one spot. Part of her was ashamed of what she was feeling, while part just wanted to hide behind Dredd.

The clearing was erupting in a bustle of frantic activity when she finally entered it, although mere seconds must have passed. Children were rushed away in various directions. A woman ran with a scrawny cat in her arms; she disappeared through the green in a rustle of leaves. A small black girl with pigtails fell over and started howling at the top of her lungs; Cato picked her up and dragged her away, her small bare feet hardly touching the ground. Novar was shouting, and so was Cerise, something about cows, of all things. Did they have cows here? Someone yelled about a shield. In the middle of it all, Morris was hugging himself, his head lowered, his eyes closed, struggling to find his inner calm, but his defences were completely down now, his presence flickering and dancing around him. Responsibility weighed on him as heavy as a mountain, pressing down on his narrow shoulders until he was hunched under it. The tree. The metal tree. All the things that could not have been saved. And if he couldn't stop the destruction... if he couldn't stop it... A grave for them all, beneath the tree of remembrance, a grave that held no memories...

"Anderson!" Dredd had gripped her by both shoulders and was shaking her slightly. "Anderson!"

"The tree," she told him. "It stands for them all after they're gone, but no one will ever remember." It suddenly seemed important that he knew.

"Anderson! Snap out of it, goddammit!" But his voice was distant, a murmur far below, as her mind was swept out into the desert, pulled along in Morris's wake.

* * *

Cursing under his breath, Dredd dragged Anderson towards the Landraider. This was no time for the girl to blank out on him! Her eyes had gone unfocused, empty somehow... Had those accursed mutants done something to her? No, not them, they were afraid themselves. Damn it, what was going on?

Just when he was wondering whether he would have to carry her up into the Raider Truck, Spikes reached down from the open door and helped him pull her up. He then held out his hand for Dredd, but Dredd had already turned on his heels, Lawgiver at the ready. As he strode towards Novar, Gradgrind joined him, hastily zipping up his protective vest, his helmet back on his head. Patton was in the Landraider, and Gradgrind would have had enough sense to chase the cadets in as well. It was safe to say that all were accounted for.

"What the hell's going on?" Dredd demanded of Novar. From the corner of his eyes he saw men and women with rifles start taking up position at the edge of the green zone, most likely around the settlement's circumference. They were always prepared for an attack now, Novar had said.

"Cows," the grey-haired mutant replied. "There's great herds of them out here, running wild. Mutated creatures, of course. Mostly harmless, except when in a panic, then they'll go into a rage, trample you, impale you. Whole stampede of them heading towards us."

"So activate the weather shield, why don't you?" Gradgrind suggested. "I doubt they won't be stopped by fields of crackling energy."

Novar shook his head. "Last resort. Takes a huge lot of power to maintain. Besides, we think Morgar's lot might have something to do with it, and their bullets won't be stopped by that shield. Our psychics are taking care of the cows, soothing them or driving them off, but –"

"We're left to deal with Morgar, then," Dredd concluded. "Novar, I'll give you our comm frequency. Have your people stay in cover and give us some fire support." Gesturing to Gradgrind, he added, "We might as well uncouple the modules already."

Those houses were inconveniently placed in the outer ring or even beyond it, he thought as he and Gradgrind swiftly climbed up into the Raider Truck. True, the settlement had not been threatened by the mountain clans in the beginning, but still, why did it never occur to people to plan ahead?

"Establish communications with our farm folk," he told Patton. "Alright, listen up, there's a herd of mutie cows coming our way –"

"We know," Spikes put in, at the same time as Anderson said, "From over there." She was pointing roughly towards the opposite side of the farm.

"True," Patton agreed, tapping the radar readout. "And we have several vehicles approaching behind that low rise directly ahead. Might be our friends from before."

"It's them," Anderson answered before Dredd could say anything.

"You sure?" Dredd demanded sharply. What he really wanted to ask her was if she was alright, but there was no time for that now.

"Positive. Morris taught me something. It's like, you know, projecting myself outward, you could say, but not quite –"

"Tell me later," he interrupted. "To your console. Gradgrind, Killdozer."

"Hang on, sir," Patton called before Dredd could give any more orders, "I've established a satellite uplink, that means we'll have visual right about... now." He pressed a button and flicked a switch, then tapped the radar screen, and a grainy image appeared on the main readout screen. Dredd counted seventeen vehicles, and the dark dots must be mutants on foot. "Let's see if we can get this any sharper..." An enhanced version of the image replaced the previous one. "Gotcha," Patton announced with some satisfaction.

Gradgrind surged forward. "Shit. That's a Manta Mark II. How the fucking hell did they get one of those?"

Dredd squinted at the screen. It really showed a bulky black tank, larger than the one they had destroyed earlier on, and the tank really looked familiar. Gradgrind's concern, not his, once they had uncoupled, although they would have to keep moving to avoid it; a direct hit from one of those might do the Raider Truck considerable harm. At least the other vehicles were all jeeps of one kind or another, though several seemed to be carrying machine guns.

Yet there was something else. "They're not moving. I suggest we postpone the uncoupling until they start up again, or else they'll know we've spotted them."

"Sir." That was only the second time Gradgrind called him that. "If I may suggest a course of action..." When Dredd nodded curtly, he continued, "The Mark II is a rolling fortress, but it has a major design flaw. That's why we're not using it anymore. If you get the top grille off – not hard, if you know how – all it takes is one well-placed grenade to disable the entire thing."

"Very well," Dredd agreed. According to Gradgrind, they did not have any heavy rockets, and he knew from his own training that a Manta was nearly impenetrable. "Tell me how, and I'll do it."

"Negative, sir," Gradgrind said firmly. "I'm doing it. I've spent thirty years with Mantas, near enough, and it wouldn't be the first time I'm performing that little trick."

It was outright insubordination, but Dredd had to admit that the man had a point. "Fine, you do it. Patton, take the 'Dozer. I'll run the Truck myself. Anderson, pick a cadet to assist me, the other goes with Patton. Spikes, sit your ass down already and keep still."

"They're moving again, slowly," Anderson announced to the cockpit in general. That she wasn't looking at the radar screen did not surprise Dredd at all. He feared he would have to repeat his instruction, but Anderson blinked as if readjusting to her surroundings, then said, "Thiago, stay here. Andrin, with Patton."

He sat down in the driver's seat and quickly adjusted it to suit his own measurements; Patton was a head shorter than he was, after all. The boy – Thiago, apparently – slid into the seat beside him and promptly replaced his white helmet with Patton's headset. "Switch the intercom to open mode," Dredd instructed him. With a heavy vehicle to operate, he did not want to press a button every time he needed to tell the Killdozer crew something. Truth be told, he was not particularly comfortable at the wheel. Street Judges did not drive much, as a general rule; even their patrol wagons usually had an auxiliary as driver. He had driven one such pat-wagon himself on occasion, and once even a small truck, but he lacked the practice to really feel as calm and secure as he did on his motorbike. And something the size of the Raider Truck was completely new to him. No need to mention that to the others, of course. "Patton, come in."

"At my station, sir," the reply promptly came from the speakers. Reliable man, Patton.

"Stand by for uncoupling protocol." He would have to initiate it himself this time – it probably could be done from the other side, too, but he would not waste time with technical questions – yet he needed to know something first. "Anderson, what are they –"

"Getting ready to fire," she interrupted sharply.

Cursing under his breath, he yanked the lever in the middle of the console. "Protocol started, evasive manoeuvre when clear." He hastily tapped the input screen at his right hand for confirmation, then remembered to switch the gear control to maximum burst. For combat manoeuvring, this setting could decide matters of life and death. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Gradgrind was back in the Truck, with a small transparent bag full of hand grenades and remote detonators. The veteran was standing by the door, holding onto the handle bar beside it firmly. He knew what was coming.

The positioning screen lit up, and Dredd gunned the engine immediately. The Raider Truck lurched forward violently, and just in time. Where they had been moments before, an explosion shook the ground, spraying up sand and dirt. Spikes yelped audibly.

"That might have scratched our roof a little," Gradgrind remarked dryly. "Don't worry, Harvey, if that's all they can throw at us, we'll be perfectly fine."

Dredd pulled the Truck into a turn. "Patton, fire at will, but cover my left flank. And keep that Manta busy."

"Understood," Patton replied. The Killdozer was overtaking them in a wide arc, rockets already streaking over the rise. Dredd followed, making sure he stayed too close for another vehicle to safely slip in between the two modules. No matter how calm Gradgrind was about this, this was extremely risky. He had to admit it to himself, part of him had been more than ready to leave this mission to Gradgrind when the other Judge so firmly insisted on taking it on, because that part of him had been downright scared – another thing the others would never find out, if he could help it. Plenty of those who knew him seemed to believe that fear was a strange concept to him, but he was frightened of something often enough. He just never let it stop him, and never let it show.

"Door's unlocked, sir," Thiago reported.

"Good," Gradgrind called over the muffled sounds of gunfire and explosions as they topped the rise to face a mass of vehicles, mostly jeeps, some of them adapted to run on crawlers, as they had seen it at Deliverance already. Mutants on foot were milling about between them, waving rifles, clubs and axes. A fireball greeted them as a jeep exploded, and a limp body was violently thrown against their windscreen, leaving a bloody smear on it. "Get me close, and away from the aft turrets."

"Will do," Dredd confirmed. Since when was Gradgrind giving the orders? But this was no time for what Hershey liked to call a macho pissing contest. "Tobler, wipers. Anderson, start firing already, goddammit!" It was not fair, snarling at them, but right now the concept of fair didn't matter. A rickety old pickup truck came racing straight towards them all of a sudden, and Dredd dodged it narrowly, then spun the wheel and trod the throttle down to the floor to ram its side. "Fuck it, cadet, how long does it take you to find something as simple as those fucking windshield wipers?" The three mutants spinning the machine gun on the truck's back towards them were thrown down into the sand behind it, and an armoured car – Dredd could have sworn it was one of those they had encountered previously – ran over at least part of them as it crashed into the truck from the other side, the man behind its windscreen screaming silently before the armoured glass shattered under a concentrated salve from the Raider Truck's heavy bottom machine gun. Thiago fumbled around on the console, but finally the windshield wipers cleaned the blood away. "Was that really so hard?" Dredd growled as he pulled back from the wreckage. The front corner of the pickup was completely caved in, the metal twisted and torn.

A mutant sprang up out of nowhere, his nose too broad, his skin an oddly reddish colour, and fired his rifle directly at them, but the bullets bounced off the windscreen harmlessly, and one of the Raider Truck's machine guns mowed him down, him and two others running up behind them.

At least there was no sign of the mutated cows on this side of the farm yet.

"Watch out!" Gradgrind cried, and Dredd instinctively accelerated, still in reverse, crashing into a vehicle behind him. Something streaked past the windscreen and exploded directly beside them, rocking them with its aftershock. "Patton must have taken out part of their targeting sensors, or we'd have taken some damage already," Gradgrind commented. "I think he's earned himself a commendation."

The Killdozer was attacking the Manta tank furiously, Dredd saw, rockets streaking against its side, ripping into the crawler, but at the same time its machine guns were spewing forth death and destruction among the swarm of other vehicles. "He sure has," he called back without turning his head, "and so will you, if you get rid of that damned Manta!" No, this was not the time for Hershey's pissing contest, but he just couldn't help reminding the veteran who really was in charge here.

"Farm muties are advancing, sir," the cadet reported.

"Tell them to take care of those who make it past us." Several of the attackers were jumping down from the back of their trucks and jeeps, attempting to circumvent their enemies on foot. In the chaos of metal, bullets and fire, they often were shot down or hit and run over by their own friends. Some of the vehicles were still advancing on Raider Truck and Killdozer, while others were trying to disengage.

Thiago started speaking into the headset microphone immediately, but Dredd paid him no heed; he was too busy concentrating on getting closer to the tank. Getting anywhere was difficult in the jumble of vehicles, even if a good part of them was burning already. One plain old car blocked their path, but the Killdozer practically blew it out of their way. "Thanks, Patton," Dredd commented. Almost there...

The din of the battle field filled the Truck as Gradgrind activated the door's opening mechanism, and the stench of gasoline and burning rubber drifted into its interior, along with dust and acrid charcoal smoke. "Get started on that commendation, boy!" Gradgrind shouted over the noise, then he pushed his respirator into his mouth and hit the door's control button once more, leaping through as it closed.

"Earn it, old man," Dredd muttered. That had been an exit with style, he had to give Gradgrind that. Circling around amid three small jeeps, two of which had just crashed into each other in a pathetic attempt at avoiding the Raider Truck, he gave Anderson the opportunity to rain bullets down on them. Three more enemy vehicles down. But once their expedition reached Dunesea, they would have to restock on ammunition.

He returned to face the tank again, bullets uselessly drumming on the Raider Truck's flank, just as Gradgrind leapt up onto the Manta's protruding crawler cover. The veteran's agility belied his age; Dredd doubted he could have done it with more ease himself. Holding on with one hand, pressing himself to the hull to avoid bullets, he hurled one of his grenades into the back of a rusty pickup holding yet another machine gun, and the mutants operating it fell flailing. Two more grenades felled a group of running men. One of them unsteadily got back to his feet, raising his hand, but Gradgrind had drawn his Lawgiver and placed one bullet in his head and one in his chest before the mutant could do him any harm.

"Wow!" Thiago exclaimed. "How cool is he?"

Dredd was about to tell the boy that Gradgrind had done nothing yet he could not have done himself, but he bit his tongue just in time. One had to stop before one got petty. "Shut up and assign his glove comm a priority channel," he ordered instead. Patton would have done this a minute ago already probably, if not even earlier.

In the meantime the Killdozer kept the Manta's main cannon busy. If Dredd saw it correctly, Patton had managed to damage the turret's swivelling axle, so that it jerked around clumsily. Commendation, indeed. The stocky engineer was worth his weight in any precious ore one could possibly think of.

Nimbly climbing up onto the tank's roof, grenade bag between his teeth, Gradgrind managed to fire an incendiary charge into a jeep's open back at the same time. Once on top, he stayed flat on his stomach, partially covered by the roof structure rising slightly higher n the middle, while he worked on what must be the grille he had spoken of. Several of the attackers had taken notice of him by now, and Anderson was having a hard time dealing with them all. All of a sudden Gradgrind winced; he must have been hit, but already he tossed down a dark piece of metal. Rigging the electronic detonators to the small inbuilt computer module in his glove, he threw them down into the tank, then took the time to throw the two grenades he had not used yet at advancing mutants. His mission almost accomplished, he looked over to the Raider Truck, offering Dredd a mock salute. "The Day of Atonement has been postponed," he announced into his comm. "Indefinitely." He tapped the touch screen on his glove even as he slipped back down onto the crawler cover.

Dredd smiled inwardly. "Stand by to open the door, Tobler."

This was when it happened. Gradgrind's foot seemed to catch on something as he jumped down to the ground. Dredd saw it as if time had slowed down all of a sudden, as if he had taken a drag from one of those accursed slo-mo inhalers. Instead of pushing himself off the hull, Gradgrind half stumbled over the edge and fell, unable to right himself before he hit the ground, sending up a low cloud of dust that partially obscured him for a moment. Only his Lawgiver slid beyond it, out of his reach.

"Cover him!" Dredd bellowed, over the outcry from both Spikes and the cadet. "Patton, buy him time!"

Gradgrind was up on his hands and knees again when the top of the tank behind him turned into a giant flower of flame. The blast threw the veteran down again; his fall had robbed him of the time to get clear. It made the mutants rushing at him stagger, too, and it gave Patton and Anderson time to deal with half of them at the very least, but more and more were streaming in like a flood. The machine guns thinned their rank, but with one of their enemies so close all of a sudden, so tangible, they kept coming like in a mad frenzy. And then they started firing.

Somehow Gradgrind had managed to unsteadily get back up on his feet, and somehow he had even retrieved his Lawgiver, but he had no more time to use it. Dredd saw the older Judge's shoulder whip back as gunfire tore into it, then he jerked forward as he was shot in the back, then staggered backwards again, in the grotesque dance of a man caught in the middle of gunfire from all sides. His knees gave way, and he fell, convulsing, to remain lying in the blackened sand, motionless.

* * *

Desperately Anderson reached out, touched Gradgrind's awareness, but the world was paling, reverting to a state of black and white as the stars sprang up above while a dim sun circled the sky. Gradgrind's fallen form was blurring, with tiny sparks leaping up around the edges. Briefly he seemed to glow in a pale light, and briefly his mind brushed hers, a touch light as a feather on her eyelids. _Don't go_, she whispered, and he smiled at her in mild regret before he became mist and passed through an invisible barrier, gently slipping from the contact like sand through her fingers, leaving behind a feeling of emptiness and loss.

Someone was screaming denial. She could not have said who it was. Was Dredd's wordless howl of rage and pain real at all, or was it just his mind filling her own with wild whirls of red, purple and black?

"Judge down."

She was hollow inside.

"Anderson!"

In front of her, the targeting screen was working all by itself, picking off what remained of the mutants, aiming, locking, firing, aiming, locking, firing. The sky above her was paved with glass, and there was no way past it, no way past, though she knew if she could get past somehow, if she only could...

Something... someone was shaking her. "Anderson! Anderson!"

She threw herself against it, but she was raging into emptiness, and the shards were brutally slicing into her awareness, though the glass had never splintered.

There was pain at the back of her head, and her head lolled forward before she found her body again. Had she ever left it? The world around her was coloured once more, but the colours were stale.

It was him. Dredd. He was kneeling beside her, what was visible under his helmet an unreadable mask. Why was he here? One of his gloved hands was on her arm, clutching it, shaking it. Had he just slapped her? How come he was with her? With his other hand he operated her console, quietly, efficiently, his focus liquid white fire channelled into conduits of ice-coated steel.

Were they still moving? Had they stopped?

"He's gone," she murmured. The words felt strange, absurd.

They had stopped. Yes. It all had stopped. Even the battle was as good as over.

"Yeah. I know." He got back to his feet, but kept working the weapon controls, his free hand on her shoulder, and she let her head fall back sideways against him, glad not to be alone as she gazed out into a starless night only she could see.

In the middle of the desert, a metal tree stood, for remembrance.


	9. The Dying of the Light

_**A.N.: **__Thank you to all those who reviewed, and special thanks to those who aren't registered on here, so I couldn't thank them "personally" (especially you, Alrisha). Quite some emotional responses. Wow. Didn't expect Gradgrind to be so popular. I hope this means I did something right, his role in the comics is tiny, and I wanted to him to be more than just "that Judge with the beard who dies in the battle". The general consensus seems to be that you love the chapter but hate me, right? ;-) Well, I hope you'll forgive me after this chapter..._

* * *

**9. The Dying of the Light**

Black smoke hung over the battlefield. Among the mutants from the mountain clans, there were no survivors.

If this had been a story, Morgar would have been the last left alive, instead of being killed inside the tank, and he and Dredd would have duelled amid torn bodies and burned-out jeeps, and finally the hero would have conquered the villain, and all would have been well.

If this had been a story, Robert Gradgrind would still be alive.

Anderson sat in a corner with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching Dredd doing what had to be done. Apparently a fallen Judge's helmet, vest and Lawgiver, as well as the complete comm unit from his glove, had to be returned to the Armoury. Gradgrind's badge lay on the tactical table, chipped by a bullet at one edge and still soiled with dried blood; Anderson's stomach clenched whenever she looked at it. A log entry had to be made, a report had to be filed, and finally Dredd had to speak to Judge McGruder in person, which made his dark mood even blacker, a cloak of deep charcoal mist enshrouding her sense of him. Anderson listened to the curt dialogue without truly taking in what was being said. When the connection was severed, Dredd remained standing at the console, leaning on the back of the pilot's chair with his forearms, his head lowered. Had he ever taken off his helmet since the battle had ended?

Quietly Spikes sat down on the floor beside her. "He said I could call him Bob," he told her. "Just this morning. Thing is, I never did. And now I never will. And I feel bad about it. Like a chance I missed. Turns out this great guy's been hanging around with us, but I only just realised, and I never got to call him Bob... Does this even make sense?"

Anderson merely nodded. She knew what he was trying to say, without having to rely on what she was sensing, but she feared that if she opened her mouth, she would start crying. Fighting back tears was hard enough already, and she did not want to cry in front of the others, she refused to. She was a Judge, and Judges did not cry.

Patton cleared his throat. He was seated at the table, opposite them, his elbows on his knees. "He has a wife and children," he told them quietly, his eyes flickering to Dredd's back. "He said so last night. I mean, of course he never was married officially, but it's pretty much the same thing. His little girl enrolled at the Academy last year."

"You know her name?" Dredd asked, without turning around. Anderson had not expected him to be listening.

Patton hesitated. Did he think Dredd would voice his disapproval now? She could have read the engineer's mind, of course, but Patton and Gradgrind had become friends during those last few days, and she feared touching another grieving mind would only multiply her own sadness. "Sophie," he answered finally. "The girl is called Sophie. Don't know her last name."

"Then find her, and take care of her family. It's the least we can do for him." Turning on his heel, Dredd punched the button that opened the door rather harder than necessary and leapt out into the sunlight.

* * *

They buried Gradgrind beneath the metal tree, in a crude wooden coffin decorated with green branches. It seemed the settlement's entire population had turned out to attend the ceremony, including plenty of people who had never even met him. Already they referred to him as their saviour, firmly convinced that he had died for them. Strictly speaking, Dredd thought, this wasn't exactly true, but at least they would honour a fallen Judge's memory. It was more than some other Judges got.

If he and Anderson had died in Peach Trees, he would have been remembered for sure, but who would have cared about the girl? Just another dead rookie to worsen the statistics a tiny little bit, just another badge among the rows and rows of badges of those who had given their life for the city. Died in a drug bust, 2094. Chief Judge Goodman and a precious few others would have mourned the loss of a fascinating asset, but who else would have cared? Who else?

At least Gradgrind had died on the battlefield. It probably was the way he had wanted to go... or was it? Maybe he would rather have died of old age, in bed, encircled by his secret family, proud to have watched his children follow in his footsteps?

What was it with older Judges and their lax attitude towards regulations in that aspect? Sure, plenty of young Judges disregarded the jokingly so-called monastic code too, it was the most frequently broken rule of all, but normally it was a casual thing, and preferably committed with each other, for reasons of ease and availability. But for some reason, older Judges tended to be more... extreme. Did they start feeling lonely after a while?

Sitting cross-legged beside the open grave, Spikes was playing a mournful tune on his guitar, one Dredd did not recognise, but some of the locals apparently did, for they were humming along. Patton stood nearby, his head lowered. Opposite him, the Tobler boys stood to attention, their backs ramrod straight, in an identical pose, each with his white cadet's helmet under his right arm, expressions blank. Still they looked shaken; it had been the first time they saw a comrade die. Dredd doubted he and Rico had looked much different when Judge Kinnison was shot down beside them, their first time on the street as cadets.

Since then, he had seen many more die, and still it made him angry and bitter to witness a good man or woman's death, but this was just the way it was. Judges died on the job. Some grew old and left active service to serve in the administrative ranks or teach at the Academy instead, and some chose the Long Walk when their time came, but many, so very many died young, leaving behind nothing but their badges to decorate the walls of the Hall of Heroes.

Anderson kept to him closely, and she had given up the effort of hiding the tears trickling down her cheeks. Did his presence comfort her? Why would it, when it had been no good to Gradgrind either? Of course, the veteran's blunder had been his own, and he had known the risk he was taking, but still... no matter if, viewed objectively, there was nothing one could have done differently to change the course of events, one always found his mind searching if there wouldn't have been one thing, one tiny thing one should have done to prevent the stroke of fate. In this instance, Dredd half blamed himself for not insisting on performing that foolish stunt himself. From a rational point of view, of course Gradgrind had been better suited to it, but all the same...

Beside him, she sobbed quietly, her shoulders shaking. In time she would learn.

Oh, damn it. He could not simply stand there and watch her cry, so close to him and yet all alone with her grief. Gingerly he placed an arm around her shoulders to offer her reassurance; it was not that he was uncomfortable with physical contact per se, but rather that the circumstances put her in a vulnerable position and therefore gave touching her a certain intimacy he was not sure she would welcome. However, as soon as she felt his touch, she wrapped her arms around his middle and nuzzled her head against his armoured shoulder.

Well... She seemed to welcome it a bit too much. A Judge wasn't supposed to put on such a public display of affection, not in _any_ situation, but this time, just this once, he decided to let it pass. The girl was devastated enough already. Patton looked over at them, and he gave him a glare, though the engineer probably didn't recognise it as such because Dredd's helmet obscured a good part of his face.

"He's getting his commendation," he told her, for lack of something better to say, but unless he was mistaken, it only made her cry harder. Had he not known her better, he would have judged her completely unqualified for the badge.

Beside the grave, Spikes played _Don't Fear The Reaper_.

* * *

By the time they were ready to leave, it was late afternoon already. But the water tanks were replenished, their rations enriched by other things than synthetic nutrients – a most welcome change, Dredd had to admit to himself –, and Patton had once again done a full check for damage.

Anderson had spent some time with the boy, Morris, once more, doing whatever it was psychics did. Poking around in everybody's heads, possibly, including his own. He felt his lips twist with distaste at that. Though he liked the girl, more than he would ever have expected, he did not want her to read his mind. There were things in there not even Hershey – his oldest and closest friend – knew about, and she never would, if he could help it.

Finally all were assembled again to bid their hosts good-bye. Novar had many words on Gradgrind's demise, but Dredd managed to leave him in Patton's care after a little while – which, in turn, left him for Morris. The boy, about to set out with some others to return those mutant cows they had been able to catch, formally thanked him for visiting and thereby giving him the chance to meet Anderson, and Dredd did his best to keep even his thoughts polite. He just wanted to be gone from here, to make as many miles as possible before nightfall and then keep going. He did not want to speak to anyone any longer, not about Gradgrind, not about anything.

But just as he turned to leave, the boy suddenly touched his arm. His odd pale brown eyes seemed to be finding his own despite the dark-tinted visor. "There are things you have been neglecting for far too long," he said quietly. "The dam will break when you meet a woman with a freckly face, and you will hate yourself for it." The narrow eyebrows drew together above his close-set eyes, and before Dredd had the chance to snarl at him, he added, "You will be whole again. But a winged shadow will lie over you, because one... one walked free."

Prophecies? A jumble of prophecies? Had the boy been dreaming, or did he have some other way? Or was he just making it up? Either way, this wasn't of much use to him. "What do you mean?" Dredd demanded. Not that it really mattered, he supposed.

Morris smiled at his feet awkwardly. "I can't tell you, I'm afraid."

"All he gets is moments," Anderson explained, before Dredd could comment on the general usefulness of foresight in his experience until now. "Images. Much like my dreams."

"Well, I guess I'll have to find out, then," Dredd remarked. One walked free? Far too many walked free in Mega-City One. And when wasn't he in danger? Something with wings was new, though. Were there mutants who sprouted wings? He strongly doubted it.

He was laughing to himself bitterly when he got back into the Landraider.

* * *

They pressed on until after nightfall, when they reached another overhanging rock formation in an irradiated stretch of desert devoid of life. With plenty of water to spare, they took turns cleaning themselves up at the tiny shower in the back of the Raider Truck. Dredd went last, after the twins, who went in at the same time and sang a duet under the shower that painfully reminded him of his own lack of vocal skills, and after Spikes, who took forever and then spent considerable time styling his hair into his trademark spikes again – as if he weren't about to go to bed. Suppressing his annoyance cost Dredd some energy, yet once the lukewarm water flowed down over his skin, he was able to relax and calm himself. It wasn't the pleasant hot shower he usually took after a long duty shift, but it served to make him feel a lot better, even about the events of the day.

Upon his return to the Killdozer, freshly shaved, his hair still moist and with his wet towel loosely wrapped around his waist, he found Anderson not curled up in her blankets already, as he had expected, but leaning on the console uncertainly in shorts and t-shirt, expecting him. "Can we talk?" she asked, with an equal amount of awkwardness and determination.

"I suppose so," he said. Small chance of escaping in here. Especially since he had once again neglected to prepare a change of clothing. There was little that escaped his memory, except such practical detail sometimes. Underwear. Locate underwear.

She inhaled audibly. "I'm sorry about my behaviour earlier today," she announced in a rush.

"Forget it." Yes, just as he had feared: still in the Raider Truck, in his bag in the storage compartment. What was she referring to, her emotional outburst at the funeral? Probably. He did not want to go rummaging through the compartments barefoot and clad only in a towel. Well, not that it was necessary, his old track pants were stuffed into the Killdozer's upper holding rack, along with his blankets. There was no need to wear anything under them.

"I realise it wasn't behaviour fit for a Judge, and I won't do it again."

"Fine." He re-tied his towel before he fished his things down from the wall rack, just in case. Those towels had a nasty habit of slipping when one moved around too much. "Go to sleep, why don't you?" He threw the blankets down on the floor opposite hers, then pulled on his track pants before he discarded the towel, hanging it over the rail above the cargo hold to dry. Anderson's damp towel was hanging there already in the light of the small lamp above the engine control panel, washed-out blue with what had once been narrow yellow stripes, most likely, beside his standard-issue white one. One might almost consider it an antiquity, from the way it looked. Had she brought it along from her former home? Had it been given to her by her parents, now long dead?

"It's just..." she continued, ignoring his suggestion, "it's... there is something you need to understand, sir. Something I feel... something I felt today, when Gradgrind..." Here she broke off, and Dredd assumed she was wiping her eyes, judging from what he saw from the corner of his eye while spreading out his blankets. Sleep would be marvellous. "I can _see_ people die. You know, like... I can feel them leave their bodies. I can feel them... leave."

It really wasn't what Dredd wanted to hear right now. What good were the psychological after-effects of the shower when she brought up again what he was trying to banish from his mind for the night, or at least for as long as he was awake? For in his dreams the day was bound to come back to haunt him, in one way or another. But it was _her_. This probably was what she needed to find rest tonight. So he sighed, righted himself and turned to face her. "And it bothers you?" Well, obviously. Really smart of you, Joe. "Was it like that at Peach Trees, too?"

"Yes, but it wasn't that bad. I didn't know anyone. And... I _wanted_ them to die. It made it easier. It... it actually felt good," she finished in a small voice, not meeting his eyes.

She made no move to come to him, so he went to join her at the console. "Yeah, sometimes it feels good. Don't beat yourself up over it. We're not perfect." The plasteen floor was cool beneath his bare feet, but the air inside the Killdozer still was stuffy and warm like during the day. Despite it, Anderson had her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold.

"The first one," she said after a pause. "The perp I executed." He nodded to indicate that he remembered – of course he did, though the man's face had dimmed in his recollection; it was an unimportant detail – and she continued, "When I shot him, there was a flash, like a flash of light, but not quite, and then something poured out of him in a rush and faded. It was... I was stunned. I felt it like... like something yanked away from my hands. And the world grew a little darker around me. The ones before him, I didn't really notice with them, I guess I was too high on adrenaline, I hardly realised... But I was focused on him, and I could _feel_ it. Almost physically."

Yes, she had looked stunned, he recalled, but he had expected no less. "Most rookies freeze up after their first conscious kill, you know. Some even before it. It's something we have to learn. After a while it gets easier." She might have a particularly hard time getting used to it, but he knew more than one Judge who hated carrying out executions to the day. She would not be the only one by far.

She raised her head to give him a small smile, but he knew that right now she doubted it ever would. "What was it like for you?" she asked.

"Oh, that was a long time ago." When he closed his eyes, he saw it all as if it had been yesterday, the chaos in the streets, the violence, the panic, the blood. War. A baptism by fire of a scale few Judges had gotten, and the youngest to be armed and sent out to the street up to date, six children, all clones, assigned to a Senior Judge in pairs. He heard the gunshots, the sirens, the screams, smelled the smoke, once again felt his heart pounding in his chest. "It was kill or be killed. We didn't even have time to think about it." Was she trying to watch the scene play out in his mind? He wished he had a way of knowing.

But to his own surprise, he found that her potential trespassing did not anger him anymore. True, it bothered him, it gave him a sense of involuntary loquacity, just as if he kept talking and couldn't stop of his own volition, not even if he clamped his mouth shut and pressed both hands over it, which made him feel awkward and also vulnerable in a way he had rarely experienced before. And the mere thought that she might be seeing what flitted through his mind automatically brought forth those things he least wanted her to see. Being near her could turn into an exercise in iron self-control, where his stray thoughts were concerned. But no, it did not anger him any longer. There was a faint trace of irritation, but no anger. Not anymore.

By now she most likely knew a fair amount of very private little facts about him anyway.

Alright, that _did_ annoy him a little.

She had lowered her head again, though if he saw it correctly in the dim light, she was gazing up at him through her lashes. "Sorry I asked, sir. None of my business."

So she wasn't reading his mind after all. He felt somewhat bad about wrongly suspecting her. "No, it's fine. But another time. It's a long story." Surely she did not need to hear this now in order to help her. It would confuse her at best, shock her at worst. What she truly needed was rest, and tomorrow the world would be a little brighter. And eventually she would become used to the darkness, and then, one day, find she had made it her own.

Maybe that was what she needed to hear. But it was hard to put into words, so much harder than his first time on the streets as a child. "Look, I didn't lie when I told you it gets better. But odds are, you'll carry something with you. We all do. This city, this life, they'll try to bring you to your knees and then swallow you whole. But when you're down to the very deepest point... _this_ is when it gets easier. If you make it your own. So it can't break you anymore." Her eyes were wide in the shadows, gazing up at him wonderingly. Most likely this had made no sense to her at all. He sighed. "What I mean is..." How to say it? He was not used to speaking of his emotions. "Oh, forget it. I can't possibly make sense to you." But maybe she would feel better because he had tried. Maybe.

Anderson tentatively reached out, and when he did not withdraw, she touched his cheek, cautiously, very gently. After a moment she said, "I know what you mean."

"What did you just –" Of course, some kind of psychic thing. What else had he expected? That she was hitting on him?

Why would he even think such a thing? She never would. Not Anderson. The girl was far too proud of her accomplishments, her newly gained rank, to ignore regulations so soon.

Her fingers lingered for a little while longer before she pulled away. "Physical contact. It helps me with the mind-reading, in a way. If I want to just brush the surface, that's the easiest way. It comes to me all by itself then, if I just listen."

At first he wanted to snarl at her for doing it without a warning, but he reined himself in just in time. When she had reached out for him, he had had a warning. He had just chosen to view it in a different context, horny idiot that he was. It seemed the reunion with the one woman he had spent a night with years ago had kicked his physical needs into overdrive. And Anderson probably knew by now what kind of thoughts frequently invaded his mind recently. It surprised him that she was not avoiding him already.

Then he noticed that she was biting her trembling lower lip, and the rising anger was swept away by a wave of... what was it? Protectiveness? How come he had formed an attachment to her so fast? All his other bonds, few as they were, had grown with time, and he was fiercely protective of those few friends. Why did he include her already? Not that it mattered. She was in pain, in a kind of pain he could not possibly fathom, and he was ashamed he had ignored it at first, instead of being there for her. Right now his rank as her superior officer was temporarily suspended. What she needed was a friend.

Later on he could not have said who made the first move. There was a moment of awkward hesitation, of fear of bridging the gap, but then she was there with him, her arms around his middle, her cheek resting against his upper chest, and he wrapped his arms around her in turn. And he was fine with that.

Her breath was getting slower and steadier; he could feel its warm tickle against his skin. After a while she started talking, in a small, trembling voice at first, but it too got steadier eventually. "I could feel him out there. Gradgrind. I could feel him cry out. And then... I spoke to him. For a moment. He heard me, too. But there was nothing I could do. I couldn't hold him. He left this world. I saw him leave, and I don't know where he went. I tried to follow, but I couldn't. There was… something. A boundary between worlds, Morris said. He says he can go beyond, if he concentrates really hard. But I failed. I couldn't help him."

"He died," Dredd reminded her gently. "There was nothing you could do."

"I should have," she insisted. "Or just... done something..."

"There was nothing you could do," he repeated. "Nothing. And I doubt Morris could have done anything. Don't blame yourself. It won't bring him back." They had blamed themselves too, him and Rico, when Judge Kinnison had been shot down between them. They had killed them all, then, all the perps in the room, even those who had surrendered without firing a single shot. And when all the scum had lain motionless in pools of their own blood, Kinnison had still been dead, and they had still been two scared little boys, and all alone. "All we can do is go on." After his friend Red, the pilot, this was the second good man who died for Mega-City Two. He just hoped it was worth it.

"We _must_," she agreed with surprising force. "We _must_, so they won't die. If they died, it'd all have been for nothing."

"And we will," he soothed her. Realising he had tangled his fingers in her hair, he stopped the motion of his hand. What do you think you're doing, Joe? Turning this into a make-out session? He could have smacked himself, hard. "I promise you that. If the Landraider breaks down, I'll walk. And if I can't walk any longer, well, then I will crawl." He allowed a tone of mock pompousness to enter his voice. "On my knees. All the way to Mega-City Two."

Anderson laughed softly against him. "And when your knees are all skinned and bloody, then I'll carry you."

"Carry me?" The smile came all by itself. "You can't. I'm too heavy for you."

She craned her neck to look up at him. In the dim light from the console, it seemed that her eyes still glittered with tears, but at least she was answering his smile now. "Then I'll have to drag you. Or maybe I shouldn't let you eat so much."

This actually made him laugh out loud. "Are you saying I'm fat?"

She stood back far enough to muster his stomach critically, and he resisted the urge to flex his muscles to demonstrate in how fine a shape he kept himself just in time. "A little?" she teased. One of her hands remained on his waist, while the forefinger of the other lightly poked him in the stomach.

This was when it hit him like a lightning strike. What the hell are you doing, Joe? What the fucking hell are you doing? You're _flirting_, that's what it is! You're on an important mission, you just lost the seasoned veteran you were relying on to help you handle the combat situations, and all it takes to distract you, to make you forget about it all, is a pretty girl? You're not worthy to be called Fargo's son.

I remember what distracted Fargo, a scathing voice spoke up in his head.

And who are you to judge him for it?, he snarled back at himself. Who are you to judge him, Joe Dredd?

Anderson had let go of him, he realised, and was eyeing him hesitantly. "I'm sorry," she ventured. "I crossed a line."

"It's fine," he said. It wasn't. "Come on, time for bed."

She let herself be led to their sleeping place easily enough, but while he switched off the small lamp and then proceeded to lie down on one blanket, his head pillowed on another, and pull the third over him, she just sat down and wrapped her arms around her knees tightly. It seemed to him that she was staring into the gentle darkness surrounding them wide-eyed, but there was too little light to be sure. "I don't think I could sleep," she told him in a small voice.

Dredd sighed as he got up again and dragged his makeshift pallet over to hers. Yet he made sure there was a little space left between them, even if it was just a hand's width. All the difference between his current position and the previous one was a metre and a half, yet he could see her relief even with the almost complete lack of light. "Go to sleep. I'll be right here with you."

* * *

At the distant sound of voices he raised his head. At this hour? The sky beyond the high dome, a huge bubble shielding life that hardly was worth living against the cold and the atmosphere's poison, did not tell him the time when he gazed up at it through a patch of transparent roof. But by now he had developed a surprisingly keen inner sense of timing.

Yes, there were voices. Shouting. In the darkness.

He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead sharply, just in case. No, he wasn't dreaming, and not hallucinating either. Most likely, anyway.

Kicking off the thin blanket, he rolled off his cot and landed on his bare feet smoothly, quietly, in a crouch. His eyes darted from side to side by instinct, then, with a tiny snort, he righted himself. This place was driving him paranoid, slowly but certainly. He pulled his boots on, then his thin grey T-shirt and yellow jacket, the prison garb he so detested, still moving quietly. There was a security camera watching him, so it served no purpose, but silent movement had very much become habit by now. Soundlessly he approached the bars, peeking out into the dimness of the corridors outside.

Where he had his quarters, very few men were kept. Only the most dangerous. Originally he had been scheduled to depart with a terraforming crew to work at Shangri-la – the name was bitter irony; more prisoners died there than in the rest of the penal colony's facilities combined – but administration had changed their mind about it soon enough, after he had killed two fellow inmates with his bare hands. It had been self-defence, of course, but ever since then, he had been kept in nearly total isolation, even when working. For his own sake, they said. He suspected it was more for the sake of the others. Administration did not want to lose too many of their resources, no matter how worthless they were as human beings.

They were coming closer.

His shoulders tensed as his eyes attempted to pierce the darkness. The only light came in from above the structure's roof, a yellowish glow beneath a dimly opaque sky, currently half swallowed by Saturn's mighty shadow, its rings cutting across the sky like a vaguely defined bridge of darkness. The voices were growing louder now; he could make out individual words.

And then shots rang out. Withdrawing from the bars, he crouched down nearby, waiting for them to stop firing. By now he had a pretty good idea what was going on, and while he remained in hiding, motionless, his mind was working feverishly, carried by cascading and crashing waves of excitement. He was a coiled spring, every fibre ready for attack.

Shots. Screams. Running feet. Closer, ever closer. Finally a siren rang out its cry to arms. Too late, much too late. The tip of his tongue flicked across his dry lips eagerly.

And then they were there, two of them. Righting himself, he lounged against the bars, putting on a show of calm while his insides were writhing and reeling. He thought he recognised their faces, at least dimly. What good were faces to them, when in here they were just numbers?

"Want out?" the tall one asked in the slurred accent of the westernmost parts of Mega-City One. He carried a heavy assault rifle. "We could use you."

He smiled, slowly, lazily, a predator's smile. "Go on." His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears; he had not used it in at least two days.

The other one, shorter, but with broader shoulders, his skin dark as a Judge's uniform, slid a mag-card through the lock, and the door to his cell swung open.

At last. It was hard not to laugh out loud. But he had to work calmly and methodically now. "Lead the way," he said.

When he caught the tall man in a choke hold from behind and intentionally chose the angle so that he crushed his windpipe when he flexed his arm, the other was too surprised to put up much of a fight. The black man spun around at the sounds of panting and gagging that soon turned to wheezing, raising the rifle he was carrying, his eyes, bright against his dark skin, grotesquely wide, but he pushed his gasping victim forward towards him, and both men fell, the tall one clawing at his throat, the other struggling beneath him, unable to retrieve his rifle from under the heavier man's body. This time he really laughed as he brought his boot down hard into his face. Kept in isolation for years, he had completely forgotten how much he had missed the thrill of the fight.

Had he really enjoyed it that much, he wondered as he picked up the tall man's gun and put a bullet through both men's heads, just in case, had he truly lived for the fight like that? Or was it just that the thrill told him he was still alive in this cold and distant tomb?

Alive, and free. He was still smiling when he picked up the black man's rifle, too. Free at last.

Cautiously he moved along the corridors, following the cries and screams and gunshots. There was a fully fledged battle going on here, it seemed. Twice more he encountered small groups of escaped prisoners, and they all died with a bullet in their head. Another group had taken over the isolation sector's control room, but they, too, soon shared their fellow inmates' fate. There was no stopping him.

Barricading the door, he slumped down into the blood-spattered chair in front of the screen and started watching the video feeds, carefully taking note of their points of origin. He already had a vague picture of his concrete and steel grave's layout in his head, so it was not hard to build on it. Soon he had a pretty good idea of what was going on, and where. And where he had best be now.

It was just as if he had never been gone, never shut away from the light.

Before he left, he picked out those weapons best suited to his taste and all the matching ammunition he could find. There was a light ahead, it seemed to him, a dim, weak, flickering light, but it was there. For him.

Rico Dredd was going to rise from the grave tonight.


	10. Twists of the Mind

_**Author's Note: **__Sorry this took so long. There was so much to do before the holiday. Therefore, this chapter was completed at London Heathrow Airport, and now I'm sending you greetings from Mega-City Two... uh, I mean Los Angeles. It's shortly past 6 in the morning here, but since it's shortly past 3 PM back home, I'm wide awake, and thought it was high time to take care of that update. :)  
Thanks a lot to those who favourited this story, and even more to those who took the time to review. Reviews make me bounce up and down with glee... in a very professional and manly manner, of course. =)  
And since Alrisha asks, I included a few glimpses of Anderson's past. Yes, I do take requests - as long as they fit in with the storyline._

* * *

**10. Twists of the Mind**

Anderson could not have said what it was that woke her. She just opened her eyes and stared up into the darkness in the Killdozer's belly. What hour was it? Was the night growing old outside? She had no idea, but it did not matter for once, she was wrapped up nice and snug in her blankets and could remain there, she had no classes or exams she could not afford to miss, classes for which she might have to fit in some last-minute preparation. She could simply listen to Dredd's even breath beside her until she fell asleep again.

It took her a moment to register his unrest. While he lay there sleeping seemingly peacefully, his mind was broadcasting what felt like the tiniest amount of static to her, tickling her skin. He was dreaming, then.

For what felt like minutes she just lay there and inwardly struggled with herself. Slipping into dreams was easy; she had practised it on her unknowing sleeping roommate quite frequently. Just a peek. No. He's your superior officer. Come on, a tiny little peek, no more. You can't do that. Why not? You'd be betraying his trust. He'd never find out. That makes no difference. Just a peek...

Finally her curiosity got the better of her. She closed her eyes and tentatively reached out towards the bright glow that was him, a little subdued now that he was asleep. When she concentrated, she could easily find the others, too; Spikes had moved in with Patton apparently. This painfully reminded her of Gradgrind, and quickly she focused her attention on her awareness of Dredd again.

Just as she had expected it to be, his mind was unguarded in his sleep. The barrier of iron control she usually felt around it was gone, and when she just pushed inside a little bit... Yes. Just as with her roommate, she could see his dreams.

Later on she could not have said why she had pushed further, beyond the point where she could see, but all of a sudden she found herself inside his dream, watching from behind his eyes. The room was dark, and she was not sure if it had walls, if it was a room at all, but at one end there was a dais, and on it a chair like a rough-hewn slab of stone. The man on it was clouded in shadow, his face barely visible.

She approached slowly, almost one with Dredd all of a sudden, knowing she must be there, but afraid to be, afraid to look into the mirror that were the shadowed man's eyes, pools of obsidian in a face that both was and wasn't hers.

"Where is your brother, Joseph?" The voice came from everywhere at once, although it was the figure before her that had spoken. "What have you done with Rico? He, too, is my son."

She stopped, and yet without transition the dais was directly in front of her, the figure on it huge, and growing. "You disappoint me, Joseph. You are flawed. Human." Before her eyes, a boy floated in the air, a dark-haired boy in yellow prison garb, a noose around his neck. His eyes were empty sockets. "He was the one. You are nothing." The sockets were bleeding now. "You killed him, and you took his place." The boy melted into Gradgrind, with his eyes still missing, a broken helmet at his feet.

"I couldn't save him." Her voice – Dredd's voice – was barely a whisper.

"You failed me." A hand reached out, white and pale, and grasped her face, pulled it away from her, a pale mass like rubber liquefied, dripping and dissolving into mist.

The scenery changed, the room at once bright and tiled in light blue and smelling of chlorine and disinfectants. Figures in white surrounded them, their faces hidden behind masks, and grotesquely large scissors gleamed in their gloved fingers. Rico was grasping her hand firmly. "You're not castrating us," he snarled at the faceless people, and she agreed, "We're not letting you!"

"Better you than me," Gradgrind said, sitting on the operation table cross-legged and toying with a Widowmaker rifle.

"You know," Spikes put in from among the army in white, "this place could do with better beer. I like those, though." He was hooking a pair of grenades into his ears like oversized earrings. "Anyway, Judgey, why is everybody made of paper here?" He nudged the figures next to him, and they fell, two-dimensional cut-outs unable to stand.

Rico's hand was slipping, and she tried to hold on to it, but it was slipping further and further, and Rico was getting smaller...

"I wonder what happens when I do this," Spikes said and pulled the rings from both grenades.

The world went white, and she was all alone. "Rico!" she called, but there was no answer. Her brother, she needed to find her brother... Dredd's brother, something inside her dimly remembered, not hers... hers... not hers... She was losing herself, and she hardly realised it anymore. She was Cassandra Anderson... she was Cassandra... she was... she was...

"Very well, Joe," said Doctor Judd, seated at his desk behind her. "Let's review your lessons, shall we?"

Standing bolt upright in front of him, doing her best to wear a look just as fierce as the Judges did, despite being nothing but a small boy in black-and-grey leotards, she recited, "I won't let my team die. Not ever. If the Landraider breaks down, I'll walk. If I can't walk anymore, then I'll crawl. All the way to Mega-City Two. But I won't let them die. None of them. Not ever again."

Gradgrind was laughing at her from behind Doctor Judd's back. "You're a liar, boy. Such a conceited little liar."

Judd simply shook his bald head – and then he wasn't bald anymore, but grey-haired. As he raised his head, Fargo was back. His face, so very much her own face, only decades older, looked haggard and tired. "This time, this one time, make me proud, son."

She bit her lip and nodded, and Fargo faded away, leaving her on her own in a dark room once again, a grown man now, though still in leotards. She briefly wondered about that – she was pretty certain she had not worn leotards in a long, long time – but then she could hear voices laughing, somewhere far off, and someone was whistling...

"Hello, my sweet." It was Sandra, looking just the same as she had looked the first time they had met, and wearing not a stitch of clothing. "I think I have something to make up for."

"Possibly," she replied, though she had no idea what the girl was talking about. Make up for what? "But..." She could not remember what she had been about to say. Some form of protest? But then again, why should she? Fargo was not watching right now.

The girl was leading her towards a bed, at the same time removing her protective gear with deft fingers. "Come on, my sweet," she purred as she let the uniform jacket float towards the ceiling, "time for a little treat." And then she smoothly turned into Anderson.

With a yelp Anderson withdrew, finding herself back in her own body, startled awake from a dream that had not been her own. Beside her, Dredd gave a little growl that sounded suspiciously like pleasure.

She must be blushing furiously, she thought, from the way her cheeks felt. Was he having an inappropriate dream about her right now? Her first impulse was to get a bottle of water and pour it right over his head. The next was to pour it over her own head to cool down the flush of heat in her cheeks.

With an inaudible sigh she pulled her blanket around herself once more. Such dreams were normal; everybody had them, to her knowledge. She had inadvertently caught her roommate having dreams of a more erotic nature too, so why not Dredd?

That was _me_ in his bed.

So what? Be flattered. And go back to sleep.

But sleeping was hard when his mind was positively radiating pleasure at the same time.

Very well, you asked for it... Once again Anderson entered his head, but this time she stayed well out of his dream. Instead she formed a suggestion in her mind and carefully, very carefully planted it into his. Withdrawing, she watched it unfold slowly, watched the first fat raindrops fall from the bedroom's ceiling...

He just kept going. The man was unbelievable. The rain was turning into a downpour, the bed into a pool, and yet he would not be deterred, his head flung back, his hair plastered to his face, laughing in the storm as rivulets of cold water ran down his skin. And she, that other version of her, that naked and flatteringly attractive version, was smiling up at him as they –

No, no, NO! Get out of there right now!

Anderson sighed and inwardly scolded herself for the brief notion of trying to replace his mental image of her with herself, her own mental projection. She did not even know if it would work the way she hoped it might.

And she had absolutely no business hoping for such a thing, just as he had no business having dirty – and, quite literally, wet – dreams about her in her immediate vicinity, so that she would be unable to find sleep any time soon, even if she tried.

Very well, if he was refusing to stop even under the influence of cold water, she had to use something more cruel. A lot more cruel. Something similar had certainly worked on her roommate, though she still had a bad conscience about those little experiments. Improvising, she formed images, aligned them, inserted them into his head and then triggered them, one after the other, nudging them into his awareness...

Very abruptly he sat up, disoriented for a moment, then rubbed his eyes, muttering something under his breath that very much sounded like a string of curses.

Despite all efforts to the contrary, she could not quite suppress a giggle. Trying to mask it as a minor coughing fit, she hoped he would not notice.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Thanks, just fine." She couldn't help but add, "How about you?"

Dredd let himself fall back into his blankets. "Oh, nothing. Just a totally weird dream."

"Oh," Anderson said innocently. "I hope it wasn't too bad."

"No, just plain weird," he replied, barely intelligible because he was yawning hugely at the same time. "Fargo wanted me to dance a polka in a chicken costume, while McGruder was wearing a glittery frilly dress and asking me to marry her. And Goodman told me my hair looked bad. Weird." With a small grunt, he rolled over and pulled the blankets around himself.

Well, he had left out some points, but close enough. "Really?" Anderson murmured. "I wonder where you got those ideas..."

And if she ever caught him having sex dreams about her again, she might make him sleep with McGruder instead... Oh well, maybe that was too cruel a prank. Maybe.

* * *

There was fresh bread for breakfast the next morning – or relatively fresh bread, at least – and some fruit and vegetables the twins had cut into slices and laid out on wrapping foil, for lack of plates. There were bottles full of munce juice in four different colours, all with tiny bits of actual fruit floating in them, and, to Dredd's surprise, a small pile of candy, too. Surely the mutant farmers had not given them candy? When he asked, it turned out the twins had taken it from their considerable stockpile acquired by redeeming their hard-earned cadet creds and brought it along, and decided to share. Normally Dredd rarely allowed himself the luxury of candy, but for once he indulged himself a little.

Anderson looked better today, sitting opposite him in uniform trousers and T-shirt and chatting with the boys, occasionally even smiling. Apparently she had slept more peacefully than he had, what with that somewhat disturbing dream. He had only told her the harmless part of it, not the bit where he had been in bed with her until Fargo and McGruder had barged in, and Goodman had drawn out a notepad and commented on his anatomy; he was glad she had no idea that had happened in that dream too.

After breakfast, Patton got the Landraider ready, while Spikes cleaned up the table, this time even without grumbling, or only very little of it. Within minutes they were ready for departure.

The ground was relatively even, the weather mostly clear, and they made good progress. This time they took turns at the wheel, he, Patton and Anderson; Gradgrind's death had brutally reminded him of how mortal they all were, and they had to be prepared for all eventualities. He needed practice at the vehicles controls, and so did Anderson. Even Spikes was allowed a go, and as afternoon progressed, the twins were permitted fifteen minutes each, under Patton's close supervision, before they were sent back to their studies.

The radiation levels were falling once again, though the landscape remained empty and desolate, a barren wasteland of rocks and sand the rose and fell and gently sloping hills. According to the readouts, the Landraider wasn't picking up any signs of life nearby. Maybe this area would be colonised eventually, and maybe there would be vegetation again one day, and even animals, but for now it was nothing but a stretch of desert.

There was very little to do, and Dredd was just starting to wonder whether he might set out with one of their bikes to pass the time when the message from Control came through. Classified, it said on the screen. For Anderson's eyes only.

If Patton was curious, he did not let it show. "Routing it to the 'Dozer," he just said. Anderson thanked him and went to the back.

This interfered with Dredd's plans, of course, since the bikes were kept in the back, so he remained seated beside Patton, idly wondering what secret instructions Anderson might be receiving. That Control would communicate with someone else while he was in charge irritated him somewhat. Most likely it concerned the twins, he assumed. Some psychic thing. Still, he did not like it when something was going on behind his back, and creating mutated Fargo clones was a perversity, though he was starting to see the usefulness of it. Had they yet tried to poke around in his head? If someone at Armoury invented a helmet that kept nosy psychics out, he would be the first to apply for one.

He turned his head as Anderson re-entered the Raider Truck. So soon? Past the twins at the tactical table, with their noses in their books, she came, past Spikes snoring softly with his mouth open opposite them. "Could I have a word, sir?" she asked him.

He accompanied her back to the Killdozer, for lack of something better to do. At least she looked fairly stable now, which meant that awkward situations like last night's could be avoided. "What is it this time?" he asked as they passed through the hatch. It must have sounded far too impatient, and it really wasn't her fault that just keeping still in here made him twitchy, so he quickly added, "Did they give you an unpleasant order or something?" Not much better, and he certainly wasn't supposed to ask.

Anderson stopped by the console. Through the windows of armoured glass behind her, he could see the reddish rock teeth they were passing by. "It was Hershey," she said. "Just a few lines, before she went off duty. She wrote..." Here the girl hesitated, the tip of her tongue flicking against her upper lip twice. "She wrote the one to watch is Thiago. He's modelled after your brother." She swallowed, not meeting his eye. "I thought you should know."

Just as he had suspected. Judd must be bitter still, to have lost his finest product like that, and he would not quit until he had created a reformed Rico, one he could control. Back when they had been children, Judd had always been the kindly uncle like he was found in the books to them, but Dredd had not the slightest doubt that the scientist was a very ambitious man. "So, what are you to do now?"

"I thought I'd get him on his own for a bit," she explained. "Those two have a very strong connection, and they always stick together. I'll probably learn more if I split them up."

The idea came to him spontaneously. "How about I take Andrin out on a ride, then? Rad levels are down far enough for it."

"Sure," she readily agreed. "And I'll spend the time with Thiago. I'll try and get him to trust me."

"You do that." Pleased to have something to do at last, he went forward to tell Patton to stop and unload the bikes. If Thiago was supposed to be a younger version of Rico, then Andrin most likely was something like a copy of himself, and getting along with himself shouldn't be that hard. Hopefully.

* * *

The boy loved the idea. Usually Dredd managed to put on his full street uniform very quickly, yet somehow Andrin was even faster. Patton drove the second bike down the ramp for him, but as soon as the engineer got off, the cadet hopped onto it. Although these models were somewhat smaller than the regular Lawmaster, the boy's legs were too short to properly reach the ground, but he switched on the internal stabiliser before Dredd had to tell him to. "Let's go!" he exclaimed breathlessly, a child in for a treat.

"Listen to me first, or you're going nowhere," Dredd said dryly, watching the ramp close, a thin curtain of sand raining down from its edge. He hoped this was a good idea. "Whatever happens, you stay close. You do everything I tell you, without questions or discussion. If you have a problem or want anything, you let me know straight away. Comm's the same as on the Lawmaster." The boy was a sixth-year cadet, he had to know how that worked by now. "You'll drive safely, no unnecessary risks, no dumb stunts." Especially since the boy must have started riding a bike in his fifth year and couldn't possibly have much experience. "Give me any cause, and this is the last time you sit on that thing. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir." Andrin tried to sit up very straight.

"Here we go, then."

At first Dredd chose a slow pace so Andrin could get used to the different bike and the rocks and sand beneath the wheels, letting the Landraider gain ground. When it seemed to him that the cadet was comfortable, he accelerated. The boy stayed with him easily enough, close, but not too close, and kept a wary eye on the ground, avoiding rocks jutting up out of the sand early on. Until now, Dredd was quite pleased with him, but then again, this boy was pretty much himself, so he should have known he would be.

Soon they overtook the Landraider. Dredd gave Patton and Spikes in the cockpit a mock salute in passing, but Andrin kept his eyes firmly ahead. There was nothing but open desert before them now, low rolling hills marching on until the hazy horizon.

Dredd chose to turn north; on his small control screen he could easily track the Landraider steadily travelling towards the northwest, and Patton would be able to track them in turn. Roughly a hundred miles lay between tonight's campsite and the place where they would cross the Missouri river. A short distance, to someone born and raised in Mega-City One, that sprawling Moloch stretching for approximately eight times that distance from its northernmost sector to its southernmost, and a good two hundred miles from the Atlantic Wall to the western boundary wall in some places. But distances counted differently here, out in the wilderness.

When they were about half a mile away, he contacted Patton to remind him to monitor atmospheric disturbances closely. Getting caught by a sandstorm out here definitely wasn't an experience he was angling for. Not that Patton needed any reminder, of course. At the speed the bikes could make, there was little to worry about, as long as they stayed within a, say, two mile radius.

The boy clearly was having fun, and was doing fine, too. Maybe it was not so bad after all, being stuck in the middle of nowhere with cadets. True, Dredd still felt he could have been of more use on the streets – more than that, he _should_ have been there, in times of need – but at least this did not feel like punishment right now.

After approximately half an hour spent more or less paralleling the Landraider, they stopped under the shadow of a strange mushroom-shaped rock looming up towards the bright sky. With their backs against the rock, they rested for a few minutes and drank most of the water they had brought along in one go; the heat, the dust and the dry air had made them thirsty. Dredd took his helmet off to wipe the sweat from his face, but it was not much cooler without it, so he put it back on straight away instead of leaving it off for a moment, and Andrin mirrored him exactly.

"If we're both Fargo clones," Andrin asked tentatively after a brief spell of silence, "does this make us brothers?"

"I suppose."

"Do I still have to call you sir, then?"

"Yeah."

The boy was quiet after that, probably sulking. Dredd did not care much. Had he just heard a scraping sound, or had he been mistaken? Reaching for his Lawgiver, just in case, he tensed and listened. Yes, definitely a scraping, at irregular intervals. Coming from behind them, and... above?

Motioning to Andrin, Dredd quietly backed away towards the bikes, Lawgiver at the ready. The boy asked no questions, but quickly imitated him, though Dredd could practically read the question on the part of the boy's face that wasn't covered by his white helmet. But there was nothing there they could see. Had he been mistaken, Dredd wondered, had he simply imagined the sound? His shoulders started to relax –

And then it reared up on top of the overhanging rock formation, a creature Dredd could not quite put a name to, like a praying mantis the size of a shepherd dog, but with a strangely scaly-looking body patterned in pale orange and white. Silently it loomed against the unmarred afternoon sky, a grotesque threat sprung from nightmares. With bated breath Dredd remained where he was, ready to fire if the creature showed the slightest intent to attack – Would it? Would it really launch itself at them? – but after what felt like a long time, it slowly retreated and disappeared on top of the rock once more.

Dredd quietly released the breath he had been holding. "Let's go," he told the cadet.

Andrin nodded firmly. He looked somewhat shaken, but he had kept his nerve. He had done well.

Idly wondering whether Anderson would believe him when he told her, Dredd started his bike once more. They would reach the river soon. Time to return to the Landraider.

* * *

Thiago was looking at her out of large dark eyes. If he did not like being away from his brother, he hid it well. What he could not hide, though, was his uncertainty, surrounding him like a pale flickering halo.

Once more they were sitting in the twins' bunk, each on a bed, and facing each other. Anderson sat cross-legged, while Thiago had his knees firmly together and was leaning on his hands. If she had not sensed it around him, Anderson could have told his state of mind from his pose.

Could she get him to truly trust her? She did not know. "Open your mind," she told him in a tone as soothing as possible. "I'll try and explore your potential." It wasn't precisely a lie, but she still felt bad about it. As far as she was concerned, this boy had done nothing wrong, so he should at least be given the benefit of the doubt.

But then again, she hardly knew anything about Rico Dredd, except what little Hershey had told her in her message. A cold-hearted killer, ready to betray everything for his personal gain. Definitely enough to worry, especially if Hershey did, and that clearly seemed to be the case. Anderson had been about to ask Dredd's opinion on that description, but when she had faced him, she had not found the courage.

The boy seemed harmless enough... but how could she know for certain?

She needed to know more about Rico. Despite Hershey's caution, she really knew nothing.

Thiago was looking at her quietly; his nervousness had abated somewhat, though it still was there, prickling against her mental feelers. Past detectable barriers, blocks of black that encircled his awareness, she slipped into his mind, through a jumble of feelings towards the centre of his consciousness, from where she surveyed her surroundings. She could have looked through his eyes from here and seen herself, but there was no call for such games. It would not have been fair towards him.

Was it fair to dig around in his head at all, then?

She gently nudged his centre. Thiago Tobler, yes. It was in here, as well as a sense of loss at not feeling Andrin's proximity at the moment. Without Andrin, some part of Thiago was missing. His self-image was pretty accurate at a cursory glance, compared to those few she had seen of others, who had either seen themselves as more attractive or as more unattractive than they were. He hated being short – barely over five feet, as his mind told her, though he hoped he would grow a little still – but he accepted it as part of who he was. She found who he wanted to be, too, and that this was Dredd did not surprise her in the slightest. Most likely there were plenty of people who wanted to be Dredd.

Did Dredd want to be Dredd? The question had never yet occurred to her.

Seen from the heart of his consciousness, his thoughts and feelings were a swirling mass, and no few of them revolved around her person, though he was trying hard to push them under the flow. She still saw them, saw the things he suspected her and Dredd of doing when they were alone in the Killdozer – some of them were pretty original, and rather surprising for a boy who had been cut off from the outside world and its alleged depravity for all of his life –, saw his jealousy, too. "I'm not sleeping with him, you know," she informed the boy. "We're Judges. We don't do that kind of thing."

"What? I didn't –" Thiago was blushing furiously, mirrored by the ascending clouds of pale purple in his mind. Embarrassment, anger at himself for not having been able to conceal those thoughts, and a bit of anger at her as well, for poking around in his private thoughts.

And he was right to be angry. Sifting through his mind like that was an extreme invasion of his privacy and really not fair towards him.

"Let's make a deal," Anderson suggested. "For everything personal I see in your head, I'll tell you the same about myself, so that it's fair. Okay?"

Thiago nodded with a small smile. "Okay."

"Okay," Anderson echoed him. She might as well start right now. "So, I'm not doing it with Dredd, but I have on occasion imagined having sex with a Judge called Gibson, who works in Sector 1." That might be the Academy's sector, but still she highly doubted Thiago could possibly know the man. After all, she had not known him either, until he had introduced himself.

Thiago gave a little giggle at that, and the mist that clouded him faded.

Anderson pushed deeper, into the more hidden areas of his mind. The cadet's memories lay before her, a tunnel without dimension, filled with gems of light. But there was a space inbetween that interested her more, a space Morris had shown her. There was a space that was occupied by the subconscious, by deep-running desires and dreams. This was where the animal lived, Morris had said, looking at her with those earnest eyes, the dark cave that might show an entirely different person. This was what she was looking for.

At first she couldn't locate it. There were his thoughts all around her, encircled by feelings, current thoughts flitting across his mind like scuttling insects and disappearing into the mass of the others. More solid beneath them, his knowledge, his outward personality. According to that, he was a nice boy, though well aware of his considerable skills. "I try to get along with everyone too," she remembered to tell him. "But I never was any good at the Academy. And I was a bit awkward socially." A bit? Only a bit? "Okay, I was totally awkward. I was shy and mousy and all that." Carefully she delved deeper. Where was it? Morris had shown her! How come she could not find it?

"You? Really?" Thiago laughed in disbelief.

"Really." His merits at the Academy gave him a certain self-assurance. She had not had any of that. And he had his brother. She had not had a family in a long, long time. At ceremonies and on visiting days, there had been no one for her. Of course she had had friends at the Academy, but on those days she still had felt incredibly lonely.

Giving herself a shake, she returned to searching the cadet's head. Where was that subconscious? All she found were his memories. On a spur-of-the-moment decision, she glanced at them instead, at as far back as they went –

_Light. Sound. Air. A spell of dizziness bordering on vertigo. Everything too harsh, too bright, every sensation too intense, every sound a brutal assault on his ears. Even the air touching his skin was the onslaught of a gale. A tiled room of garish white, barely seen through his half-shut eyelids. Roaring voices that made no sense to him._

_Where am I? Where am I?_

_"Thiago Tobler, gestation February 12__th__ 2083, 02:54, emerged June 21__st__ 2084, 11:13. Process complete."_

_The air rushing into his lungs burned in his windpipe. Fingers clenching, he blindly reached out –_

_A hand closed around his own, soft, warm, soothing. And all at once he could feel him again. The missing part. The other side of him. He was whole. He barely felt the shivers running down his body. He was whole._

"I don't remember my own birth," Anderson said, astonished. "I remember when I was small, three or four maybe. I remember my parents." She looked at the picture every day, or else their faces might have faded from her memory. She had been only seven years old when they died of fallout cancer, her father shortly after her mother, and she dimly recalled the hospital rooms she had spent so many hours in, the sound of the beds creaking softly and of machines blipping and beeping, the smell of disinfectant. They were just images now, but the fear, the despair, the loneliness, the pain, they still were very real. Then the orphanage, two dreary and empty years...

Why had they even accepted her into the Academy? She had often wondered about that. Had she really passed the aptitude test? Back then, she had not felt that way. But she must have. The old man had said so.

Feyy. His name had been Feyy. There had been something odd about him, something she could not have put her finger on.

"I wasn't a baby when they got me out of the tank," Thiago explained, calling her back to reality. "That's why."

Anderson nodded, not quite registering his reply. That something about Feyy...

And all of a sudden she found it, tucked away behind the tunnel of his memory. It was a dark place, and small in a way, narrow, hard to access even with the thinnest feeler. Anderson hesitated. This was somewhere she felt she had no right to venture. But she had to. The Chief Judge herself had given her specific orders, and what Hershey had sent her might not have been an order, but a fairly clear instruction all the same. Also, what came from Hershey in that matter most likely came from the Chief Judge herself.

Did Thiago himself have any idea what was hidden in there?

Steeling herself for surprises of any kind, Anderson cautiously brushed against it –

Thiago blinked; Anderson registered it dimly, her eyesight consisting of two overlapping layers now. On one sat a teenage boy, on the other... something flickered up for a moment and stretched its shadow-crafted limbs, threw back its head, bared its teeth. Rage. Greed. Lust. A swirling maelstrom of raw, primal emotions that hit her with some force, only to dissipate into nothingness when she withdrew.

The cave where the animal dwelled.

"What did you just do?" Thiago asked. "It felt odd."

"I'm not sure," Anderson admitted. Was this how it was supposed to be? Morris had only shown her, guided her there inside his own head, but had not made her touch it. Maybe she had to find this place within _her_ head first, so she could compare it to what she had just encountered.

But could she do that at all, navigate through her own mind like through someone else's? She had not yet tried it, partly because she did not know how and was reluctant to admit that fundamental-seeming failure to herself.

She could compare Thiago with his twin, of course.

But first she had to try again. "Relax," she told the cadet. "If it gets unpleasant or hurts or anything, let me know and I'll stop."

"Okay." The boy seemed calm, but Anderson registered a certain air of apprehensiveness about him. What had it felt like to him? With that sudden upsurge of what she had sensed, she had not noticed that smaller reaction.

At first she wanted to be even more careful, but then she decided otherwise. If even a cautious nudge brought on this result, she might as well dive in straight away and see what happened. Unconsciously drawing a deep breath, then noticing and feeling silly for it, she pushed into the hidden part of Thiago's mind.

The flood of emotions was there again, a storm of black slashed with intense purple, dazzling flashes lighting it up for fractions of sections. In the raging stroboscope light, the beast inside its cave moved in a stuttering, unreal sequence as it once again bared a maw of sharp teeth to her. What was it, a feral dog? A wolf? A wolf-man? She was not sure. Bracing herself against the suction of his wrath and desire, she reached out to it in an attempt to learn more –

And then the images started raining down on her. There were flashes of objects, weapons as well as technical devices and bits of food and drink inbetween, and of unclad women, but most of all they were violence, and feral voices shouting along with them. Albert Sherman. Smash his head open against his desk. Strangle him. Shoot him at point blank. Beat him to death, until his face is an unrecognisable mass of red. The Scarab brothers. Give them a sound thrashing to wipe their smug grins off their three identical faces. Linda Yates. Toss a book at her head so it splits her face open. Instructor Kelly. Rip his throat out with my teeth. Spit his blood in his face. Doreen Juilliard. Have her down on the floor, have her hard, then stick my knife into her eye. Both her eyes. Feed them to her. David Einhorn...

Sickened, Anderson fled. She had seen enough, she couldn't bear this any longer, not in this brutal intensity. Dangerous? Dangerous was the very least to call this boy! Deranged, mad, a raving lunatic! A monster out for blood!

"Are you okay?" Thiago asked tentatively.

Anderson realised she was breathing hard, as if she had run a distance as fast as she could. "Yes. Yes, I am." But _you're_ not. "Tell me about Albert Sherman, and the Scarab boys."

"Them?" Thiago looked astonished. "Sherman's a genius. Smartest kid ever to attend the Academy. He knows it, too, and he's really annoying. But we're better at all the physical stuff, Andrin and me. He's rotten at that. Does him some good to suck at something." He chuckled. "And the Scarabs, they're clones too. From the Tilman line. Ulysses, Achilles and Patroclus. I guess you could say we have a bit of a competition going on with them, Andrin and me, but they're mostly alright. They're a bit like our brothers too, since we grew up together in the lab, before the Academy." He shrugged. "Why d'you ask?"

"Just some... negativity I saw in your head." Maybe she was overreacting. If this was his animal side, it was to be expected that it showed his innermost thoughts, those he would usually restrain... or would he?

Despite her reluctance to ever touch that place again, there was something else she needed to know. Clenching her teeth, she entered the cave again, suffered through the storm, ignored the horrible images as well as she could. _Andrin_, she prompted.

Abruptly the feelings encircling her changed. Everything lit up in red around her, and it hit her like a hammer, a sense of... No, not rage. Determination. Determined, fierce loyalty. A love unconditional, strong enough to bridge the ocean and shatter mountains.

She withdrew, a small smile on her face. Enough for now. She had teetered on the brink of supplying her own name next, but she had not quite dared. Another time, maybe.

Was she afraid of what she would find?

"They're coming back," Thiago announced, sitting up suddenly. "I can feel them. They're almost back."

Anderson found that she was relieved their session was over. "We must be close to the river, then. Let's go and meet them, shall we?"

As Thiago rushed ahead of her, she stared at the back of his head, unsettled. Did a monster really live within this boy? Should she send Hershey a message? Not before she had had a look at Andrin, that was for certain, but still... should she report to anyone? Should she speak to Dredd? There was no chance to examine Rico, of course, whoever he really was, whatever crimes he had committed, but maybe... maybe she could examine Dredd. They all were Fargo clones, after all. And he was the one who had come out right. So if she compared _him_ to Thiago...

She should. She really should.

The question was, would he ever allow it?

And did she even _want_ to see what lay hidden deep beneath his high, sheer walls of control?


	11. Restless

_**Author's Note:**_

_**IMPORTANT! If you have Facebook, enter "Make a Dredd Sequel" into the search bar, hit "Like" and share it. Karl Urban and Alex Garland are doing their best to get a sequel green-lit, but they can only make it happen with our support. And, of course, if you haven't done it already, buy the DVD or BluRay. What may sway the studios are a dedicated fanbase and massive sales figures. DO IT NOW OR SPEND THE NEXT FIVE YEARS IN AN ISO-CUBE.**_

_Thanks a lot to all the reviewers! I really appreciate your feedback, even if it's just a few words._  
_(And yes, Alrisha, get an account. Sheesh!)_

_I'm sorry about the long wait. After California, I had some catching up to do at work._  
_Some recommendations to ease the next wait (which hopefully won't be that long):_  
The Red Pharma Conspiracy_ by Ricca. Really well written._  
Passing Marks_ by Giraffe on the Moon. Great characterisation of Anderson._  
Dredd: A-Day_ by Blue Paper Tiger. Really well done psychic sequences._  
Faceless_ by Fiesa. Intriguing narrative structure._  
Judge Dredd: Secrets Within_ by Doctor Dave. Has some nice Walter the Wobot action as he is in the comics._

* * *

**11. Restless**

The man was extremely good-looking, even with Gibson standing right beside her with his helmet under his arm. Hershey had to admit to herself that she found it somewhat distracting. Not particularly tall and rather slender, as far as his street uniform allowed her to see his stature, he would not have seemed very noticeable to her, except for his features, smooth and even as an ancient statue's, and his light skin made a nice contrast with his lovely black curls that somehow looked good even when messed up by wearing a helmet for a while. "Vito Scarpia," he introduced himself. "Sector 9."

"Barbara Hershey, Sector 13." It still was her official sector, despite her regular assignments with the Hall of Justice.

"Kayleigh Bruce Gibson, Sector 1. Pleased to meet you." Hershey inwardly rolled her eyes at her colleague. Was he hitting on the man? He only ever used his last name otherwise. True, if that one looked only half as good under his uniform as his face did, she still would consider him sizzlingly hot, but she had also spotted the skull on his helmet. SJS. Special Judicial Squad. The ones who judged the Judges.

"13," Scarpia repeated. "You serve with Joseph Dredd, then?"

"I do," Hershey confirmed. "Why?" Plenty of Judges outside their sector knew Dredd's name; the man had gained quite a reputation. But she doubted that an SJS Judge would be a fan.

"I still have his statement pending in the case of Judges Lex, Chan, Caplan and Alvarez. His report was too vague."

Of course. Those bent Judges had been from his sector. "He's unavailable right now, I'm afraid."

Scarpia's mouth twitched slightly. "Too bad. Slocum's kicking up quite a fuss over it. And so is Judd, from what I hear. Did you realise Lex came from the Tilman line?"

Oh. Hershey could see why some departments would positively be in an uproar over this. The name "Lex" heavily implied a clone, of course, but a Tilman clone... It was the most common clone stock, as far as she knew, and one deemed very reliable apparently, with approximately twenty in active service and half again as many currently undergoing training at the Academy, unless she was mistaken. And now one of them had gone bad... After the deep fall of Rico Dredd, the Fargo line had been discontinued for years. What would happen to the Tilman line now?

"Anyway." The SJS man shrugged it all away as if he had not just hinted that this was an important investigation. "I'm to be placed under your command, to be used at your disposal. Whatever you want with me, I'm all yours."

Hershey did her best to ignore the double meaning. When her mind was sleep-deprived – even the eight hours mandatory down-time had not helped very much, after that never-ending shift – it took detours into the gutter quite easily. My room, lose the uniform, bring handcuffs, it supplied. Hershey mentally slapped herself. Aloud, she said, "No offence, but why would I need SJS? I'm not taking prisoners, and I have no complaints or suspicions about anyone serving with me." The whole squad had assembled for transport by now; soon they would be back in the thick of battle. According to the briefing, they were making some progress, if only due to the declaration of martial law and the lack of restraints caused thereby. This measure alone was reason enough to tell her that those three hundred neatly choreographed public executions she had ordered at Van Cleet plaza had been approved of by the Council and therefore were no reason for an SJS inquiry. So what business did that inappropriately pretty SJS Judge have here?

His smile was slightly pained, it seemed to her. "You misunderstand, Judge Hershey. From time to time we need to get out into the streets, or else we forget what it's like to be Judges. For this duty shift, my division is of no consequence."

Actually, SJS Judges _did_ do street duty, in her experience. At least their own SJS officers at Sector 13, Pizarro and Bannister, spent at least half their duty shifts out on patrols and assignments. But she thought she knew what he meant. "Very well," she said. "You'll serve as my aide. And don't think that's an administrative rank, with me. Expect to be bloodied." She watched his smile turn to grim satisfaction – an expression that very much suited him – before she turned to Gibson with a grin. "That means you're rid of the job for a change, buddy."

Gibson grinned back. "Glad to hear it. Let's see how the new boy enjoys being bossed around by you."

"It's not like I won't boss you around," Hershey told him wryly, watching Finn Langley's tall, lean figure approach. Around her, the assembled Judges and auxiliaries were starting to stand up straight. Hershey always found it amusing how it passed through the ranks, one seeing his neighbour assuming the stiff attitude of attention and copying it, and then the neighbour's neighbour, and so on. For some reason the street Judges and artillery crew were a lot quicker to jump to attention than the broad-shouldered giants from Riot Squad, who generally were a slow-moving bunch – until they met with resistance, that was; then they were swift and brutally efficient. Riot Squad bred its own kind, as Gibson liked to say.

"Hershey." Langley gave her a small smile, something he reserved for a precious few. "Back on duty. Well, we've made some progress in the meantime. Your lot are doing Sector 13 tonight. That should suit you. Right now we have a bit of a situation at Sternhammer, Peach Trees and around Bolland. Solve it by any means. If you level the places and blow them all to Kingdom Come, so be it. This is war, Hershey. Deal with it accordingly."

"Yes, sir." She cast her new aide a glance from the corner of her eye to see how he would react. The same grim smile still. SJS Judges had a certain reputation for particular coldness, so she expected anything from plain indifference to outright cruelty. The latter might even suit his pretty face, she thought with a touch of amusement.

"Very well, then," Langley said, surveying the assembled force crowding the hangar. Almost eighty; Hershey had counted them. And those were only the ones coming back on duty to relieve Gamma watch, like her. Beta and Delta would stay on duty, which meant a command of approximately two hundred and fifty, unless she was mistaken. Maybe three hundred; she was not sure how large the tank crew was. An actual little army at her disposal. Her largest command up to date.

But she knew she was going to need it.

* * *

The Missouri was a broad, lazy river, broader and a lot less black than Anderson had expected it to be. Maybe the Mississippi was black. Maybe. She didn't know. Once she had read it somewhere, that they had called it the Hell River directly after the war, but more than twenty years had passed since then. She did not expect the river to be burning any longer.

Shortly before the river, the thorny bushes grew more frequent, the occasional gnarled, twisted tree could be seen, and then they reached a dirt track apparently used by trucks and crawler vehicles regularly. According to Spikes, there were several small settlements both to the north and south, and there was only one place where they could cross the river to reach the trade route starting at the settlement on the opposite bank. Patton chose to hastily purge the refuse tank before they reached a more populated area.

The ferry their briefing folder vaguely touched upon was relatively simple too, just a broad, flat boat with rails around its circumference, run by a ragtag crew consisting of crude, unwashed men, some of which might or might not be mutants.

Dredd took her and Spikes along to negotiate. At first they were rather unwilling to carry a vehicle the size and weight of the Landraider and drove a hard bargain. They even denied Mega-City One credits were accepted as payment in this area, a claim which Spikes called an outright lie. "Give us 'n hour each wi' th' girlie 'ere," one of them finally suggested in their blurred accent, leering at Anderson, "'n' we'll think 'bout it."

All the warning Anderson had was a ruby-red flare-up of anger around Dredd, then his fist connected with the man's face with an ugly crack. "Alright," he announced over the man's howl turning into a whimper and the rising mutters of rage from the others, his wrath a red halo outlining him, "this is how it's gonna be. You'll take us across _right now_, for two hundred creds, which is way more than you creeps deserve, or else you can stand in line for me to dent all your mugs in. Pick one."

One of them snatched up the rifle leaning by the landing stage, but Dredd put a bullet through his hand before he managed to train it on him, and Anderson drew her Lawgiver and pointed it at them as well, just in case. That finally convinced them, and they sullenly went about their task.

It was a very tense crossing. Anderson would have liked to enjoy the new sensation, the rocking of the boat, the slushing of the brownish-green water underneath them, the view – even if most of her surroundings consisted of rock and sand and, nearest to the water, some sparse, straggling growth of green. Instead she was watching the crew work with her Lawgiver at the ready, as did Dredd, and on the Landraider's roof the twins crouched with their own pistols trained on the grumbling and scowling men.

When they reached the opposite bank, Dredd handed the ferrymen their money, then he and Anderson got back into the Landraider and left without delay. Anderson would have liked to look at the river for a while, but not with those brutes glaring at her balefully, their resentment spiralling around them like smoke.

Soon they passed the first village at a little distance. They could make good speed, and eventually the dirt track became an actual road. Anderson could not have said whether this road had been there before the war or if it had been built by pioneers and settlers of the Cursed Earth, but it made for smooth and swift going, which improved everybody's mood, despite Spikes's attack of flatulence, which he himself found incredibly amusing. Eventually Patton opened the side windows to let in some fresh air.

Anderson was steering the Landraider when they overtook a column of riders and pack animals. She had neither seen horse nor mule nor donkey for real before, and she wasn't exactly sure if the large hooved animals trotting along the dusty road in single file were any of those or rather some mutated stock. Their large pointy ears, enormous on some, were twitching constantly, their nostrils strangely wide, their tails, long bunches of hair in most cases, swishing around nervously. The riders watched the Landraider with obvious unease too, ancient-looking rifles at the ready, but they visibly relaxed when she just gave them a wide berth and passed them by.

"Traders," Patton said beside her. "Spikes tells me there's quite a few around here. Dangerous job, what with bandits and muties and all that."

Anderson nodded. Was it a dreary life, farming on a patch of dry ground in the Cursed Earth, constantly struggling with a harsh, barren environment that hardly seemed to respond to terraforming efforts, alone in a vast, desolate country, all the while depending on regular doses of medication from places far off to keep the radiation sickness at bay? It must be. "Why would anyone live out here?" she voiced her thoughts aloud.

Patton shrugged and ran a hand through his short black hair. "Many reasons. Getting claustrophobic inside the cities. Obsessed with agriculture. Just some freaks. In many cases, on the run from the law. Sometimes banished from the cities for some crime or another. Or born out here already. Some never left their homes, even after the war. Held onto what they had left." He shrugged again. "Don't expect to understand them. I don't either, and usually I get all kinds of strange people."

What kind of people did Patton spend his leisure time with, Anderson wondered, to say such a thing? She barely knew the engineer, she had not even yet tried to read his mind. He was important to their mission, and yet she had hardly spoken to him until now, let alone tried to get to know him any better. Maybe this was because he was so... inconspicuous. He usually was quiet, and she had not felt him radiate any strong feelings yet. Even when sitting next to him, the twins' curiosity about the animals outside was much stronger than anything she sensed from him, despite the twins sitting at the tactical table and Patton right beside her.

She felt Spikes turn up from behind before she heard him, and she noticed that he was rather... sheepish. "Hey, Jack," he announced in a cheerful tone nonetheless, "guess what? Toilet's blocked. You really don't wanna go in there."

Patton groaned. "You had to go and do that, eh? How did you manage it?"

Still inappropriately cheerful, Spikes leaned on the top of Patton's seat. "Took a gigantic dump, I guess."

Patton sighed. He still wasn't radiating anything. "Even if you were capable of that – someone as skinny as you – it shouldn't block the toilet."

Spikes drew himself up in mock outrage. "Now you're insulting my digestive tract! I can dump like the god of cloacae, I'll have you know!"

Despite her resolution to act dignified as a Judge should, Anderson could not quite stifle a giggle at that. It wasn't drowned out by the twins' chortle, but it came close.

"Do we have to put up with your shit again, Spikes?" Dredd growled, coming in from the Killdozer, where he had probably been poring over the main weapons control again. He was the only one not in an overly good mood; Anderson assumed the cause were the circumstances of their crossing the river.

"Quite literally this time," Patton commented dryly. "I'll go and fix it."

"What did he do?" Dredd asked. The growl did not get any more dangerous, but the speck of light in Anderson's awareness that was him clouded over a little more with filigree threads of black.

"Block the toilet, apparently. I'm on it, sir."

There was a quiet thud, then a yelp from Spikes. Dredd had probably slapped him around the head, as he did sometimes. Not that it was undeserved. Then Dredd went to join the twins, judging from the movement of her sense of him, while Spikes promptly let himself fall into the seat Patton had just vacated and flashed her a huge grin she could see from the corner of her eye. "How's it going?"

"Better, since you won't be farting anymore." Anderson tapped the small rectangular control panel for the windows and closed all that were currently open; the dust coming in from outside made the air inside the vehicle dryer than it already was, and while the radiation levels were not exactly dangerous, they weren't overly healthy either.

Spikes whistled through his teeth. "Oooh, snarky. I like that."

Anderson just rolled her eyes and concentrated on the road. An armoured, but dented jeep passed them by from the opposite direction, and unless she was mistaken, it had the markings of bullets on its sides. Despite the seeming signs of civilisation, one should not forget that this was a dangerous place. And it was a long way to Dunesea still.

When Patton finally returned, he didn't look too pleased. "Have to try again when we stop," he announced in his usual brief manner." Can't get it to work right now."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that." At least this time Spikes sounded sheepish.

Anderson turned on the air conditioning a little more. Her palms were unpleasantly moist and slippery on the controls. "Can't be long, can it?" The sun was approaching the horizon ahead.

"Another two hours," Dredd decided.

* * *

In the end it was less than that. They found a suitable campsite by a large, hulking rock formation a little off the road that effectively hid them from view. Dredd had Patton scan very carefully for signs of life before he allowed the twins to climb out and relieve themselves among the rock teeth – something they were childishly pleased about.

Anderson helped Spikes prepare a small evening meal while Patton got back to work on the blocked toilet. They found a jar of pickled vegetables she had never seen before; Spikes called them artichoke hearts. There were tiny white pickled onions too, which Spikes started eating immediately until Dredd raised his head from the map reader long enough to take the jar away from him. Three times Patton turned up to enter something into a side console, muttering something about the purging protocol. Returning to the Landraider, the twins watched him curiously. Having no functioning toilet apparently made this feel even more like an adventure to them. In that case, Anderson thought with amusement, they could really look forward to the Hotdog Run, where they would not have much of anything, except their bikes.

Finally Patton came back to join them. "Nobody's fault. It's the pump," he said. "Crap model. Need to replace it."

Dredd looked up from his study of the map, one hand in the onion jar. "Do we have a spare?"

"I can get one at Dunesea, sir."

"Good enough for me." Dredd plopped another pickled onion into his mouth, ignoring the baleful glare Spikes was shooting him, then licked his fingers dry, his attention back on the device in his hand. With his head lowered, his hair hanging into his face, Anderson could see about as much of his features as when he was wearing his helmet.

No toilet for at least another day, then. It seemed the twins were getting their adventure.

Nonetheless most were cheerful during dinner. Even Dredd cracked a smile on occasion. The last miles to Dunesea would be fast and safe journeying, for a change, and maybe Dunesea even had word from Mega-City Two. And the food that the farm's inhabitants had packed for them really was good, though artichokes were an acquired taste, in Anderson's opinion. Dredd as well as the twins seemed to like them a lot and tucked in with equal ardour, which led Anderson to the suspicion that Dredd enjoyed candy very much too, just like the other two Fargo clones, and merely refused to admit it.

When Dredd spoke to Control after dinner, they confirmed his previously voiced assumptions; communications were down, but Dunesea would send out a reconnaissance flight westwards. They also had requested the presence of a Mega-City One Hall of Justice official, apparently, for some political matter, a task that was to fall to Dredd, as it seemed – something that he wasn't too pleased about. They called it Sleeper, which doubtlessly was a codename for something. Anderson was tempted to sneak a peek inside Dredd's head, but refrained from doing so. She still needed to find out whether he could detect her mental presence in his mind or not. Also, it wasn't fair towards him. Maybe he would tell her anyway.

He didn't, though. Instead he turned to Spikes straight away. "Are you familiar with the wasteland south of the road?"

Spikes pulled up his narrow shoulders in uncertainty. "Not particularly. Why? You feel like taking the scenic route, Judgey?"

Dredd gave a snort. "Hardly. After a few miles from here, the road follows the Platte river on its south bank all the way to Dunesea, where it crosses it. But the river curves northward just past that bend where the road meets it. We might shave off quite a few miles if we went straight for Dunesea instead, through the desert. It's mostly flat, according to the map."

"Mmh." Spikes frowned, tapping his fingers on one knee at the same time. "Theoretically, yes. Most villages are further north. Might stay out of the way of bandits too, that way. Might also get into trouble, though. And since you brung up shaving, how d'you manage to grow so much stubble in such a short time? Your face is full of hair like a monkey's."

"It's _brought_," Dredd retorted. "Your grammar's like a monkey's."

Spikes snorted. "How d'you know monkeys don't have a good grammar in their own language?"

"Just shut it, Spikes."

* * *

It was an actual bed. The mattress was not particularly soft, perhaps, and the pillow not as plump as it could have been, but it definitely was a bed. And Rico Dredd had not slept in a bed in a long time.

He undressed, carelessly tossing his new, freshly washed prison garb onto the carpeted floor, and slipped under the blanket naked to savour the feeling. With a sigh he closed his eyes and pulled the blanket around him. He was tired and sore, his left shoulder ached despite the medication, his injured foot and knee were throbbing gently, and there was a numb feeling where a bandage covered the place where a bullet had grazed his side, but for once he felt good.

He might have dozed off; when he opened his eyes again, he could not say for sure. The room – large compared to the cell he had spent a good part of the last fifteen years in – was cast into a pale, dim light coming from outside; the table and chair were dark shapes in the twilight. There even was a TV, a luxury he had not enjoyed in what felt like forever, and a carpet on the floor. And there was a tiny bathroom off to the side, with a shower he had all to himself. If not for his bandages, he would have liked to spend at least half an hour under a steady rain of hot water. The wardens' quarters were not so bad, in comparison to what he was used to.

On occasion he still feared he might be dreaming, but by now he had begun to believe that this was reality. He had pacified the entire east wing on his own, one man against three dozen armed criminals out for blood. He had picked out and killed the leaders of the revolt in the south wing. He had saved the governor's life. And he had been generously rewarded for his services. Rico Dredd, the hero. That was the way it was supposed to be. _Judge_ Rico Dredd. That was the way it _should_ have been, all these years.

Now he had had his chance, and he had used it perfectly. If he kept going on like that, if he was careful and smart and played his cards just right...

Wait and see, Joey. You'll be amazed.

Despite the soft bed, he wondered whether he would find any rest.

* * *

Dredd did not go to sleep that night. Slouched across the Raider Truck's driver's seat with one leg dangling over the armrest, he watched the empty radar display, almost hoping for something to show up to distract him from his feeling of unrest. Tiny dots of red that marked small critter would occasionally appear, but beyond that, there was nothing out there.

Did nobody ever travel at night here, not even so close to settlements? What were they afraid of? Creatures? Bandits? Mutants? According to the briefing folder, it could apparently be any of those, or all of them.

Quiet footsteps behind him let him swivel the chair as far as it would go. Anderson had appeared from their sleeping quarters in the Killdozer, pulling on her uniform jacket. The bunk doors were closed, but still she chose to whisper. "I was wondering where you were. Did I miss that we set watches?"

"We didn't," he replied, equally quietly. "I'm doing it alone."

By now she was very close, but she kept lowering her voice to speak to him. "I could take over."

"It's fine," he declined. "I'll sleep when I'm dead." Tomorrow morning, while the others are awake, he had been going to say; he wasn't sure what had made him change his mind spontaneously. "Go back to bed, you'll have to be up early."

She gave him a sheepish little smile. "I need to go outside first."

"Suit yourself." By now he could find the door controls without searching for them. "Don't go too far." The radar remained empty, but one could not be too careful out here.

Should they keep following the road? It might mean that they could travel at night too – though he still had to hear Patton's opinion on that – but the shortcut would mean approximately seventy to ninety miles less to go. Depending on what speed they could make, this might be nearly half a day, at the worst. But then again, the terrain the shortcut would lead them across might slow them down. Either way, if they started out early the next morning, it was safe to assume they would reach Dunesea late at night, unless they encountered an obstacle, so spending so much thought on it was a vain effort probably. Either way he had to reckon with an arrival past nightfall.

Maybe they should have travelled further, instead of stopping for the night. But then again, they had found the perfect shelter.

Dredd sighed and scrubbed both hands through his hair. Should he let Patton make the decision?

The radar showed Anderson now, as a vague shape identified as human, facing the rock wall most likely. Dredd turned off the proximity alert before it could go off. He had half expected the system to realise that she had left the vehicle in the first place, but apparently that was too much to ask.

What would Rico do? The thought slipped out from the darker regions of his mind, to where he had been trying to push it all day already, and the days before. Rico. Recently his brother had been on his mind far too often. Before he fell asleep, his thoughts inexplicably wandered to his twin, and in his dreams Rico was there, or he was gone, leaving Dredd to desperately search for him, only to wake from an uneasy slumber and find the image of Rico filling his waking mind once again.

Interestingly, this more or less coincided with his shoulder feeling sore, as if he had strained a muscle. He could not be entirely certain, of course, but he was pretty sure he had not.

Could this be the memory of their Hotdog Run as cadets, and of his brother's injury? But then again, why had Rico not come to haunt him last year when his duty as accompanying officer on yet another Hotdog Run had led him to almost the same location? And Rico certainly hadn't come home with an injured shoulder.

No, he was just being foolish, that was all. Naturally the Tobler boys reminded him of his own twin. And it wouldn't be the first time he had hurt his shoulder without noticing.

Anderson climbed back in and slid the door shut behind her. "I could take over from you," she offered once again. "Or keep you company."

"No. Go back to sleep." He did not want her to read his mind right now. Realising this had sounded unnecessarily harsh, he added, "You need some rest." Or was she having nightmares again? "We ought to have a functioning crew tomorrow, not one half-rested crew member on top of one asleep." It felt like a weak explanation.

Anderson agreed straight away, and she did not seem hurt – or maybe she just hid it well. "Fine. But if you want me to relieve you, let me know."

"I will," he promised, knowing he wouldn't.

Alone once more, he tapped his fingers on the console restlessly. He willed time to go faster. Staying up was somewhat pointless really, they were well protected inside the Landraider, and the proximity alert was rather too careful, as he now knew, but after he had told Anderson he was keeping watch, he couldn't very well join her in the Killdozer to go to sleep.

Had the system picked up him and Anderson up on the roof, their first night out in the Cursed Earth? If so, one of the twins should have seen it. He needed to question them about it in the morning.

Which sector would Anderson be assigned to? Truth be told, he wanted it to be Sector 13, his own sector, but of course he had no say in this. And since Chief Judge Goodman apparently had plans for the girl, she might well end up in Sector 1. At least Hershey would see her regularly then, what with her frequent assignments to the Hall of Justice, and his old classmate Gibson worked in Sector 1 too – a vain cockerel, in Dredd's opinion, but still a good Judge.

Minutes dragged by slowly while his thoughts circled inside his head. Always the same, always coming back to the same thing. Rico. Always Rico.

He needed to place an inquiry with the penitentiary authorities again, just to ease his mind. Or maybe he could ask Hershey by message to do it for him. Not that he was superstitious, but maybe his instinct was telling him something.

And it was high time he wrote to his brother. He could have written five years ago already, after the ten-year message ban had ended, and he was feeling considerable guilt about it by now. Rico was a criminal, a traitor, but he was his twin brother. Yet what to write? Once again he wracked his brain. _I'm doing fine, how are you?_ _Crime in Sector 13 is the same as usual. I miss you. Are they treating you right?_ Whatever he came up with, it sounded either stupid or sarcastic. And would Rico even want to hear from him?

Maybe he could get Hershey to write. No doubt Rico wanted to hear from one of their best friends.

If he still was the brother he remembered, that was. Fifteen years on Titan could change a man.

A blip on the screen made him sit up straight. But it was only a vehicle passing by on the road.

For a while he paced up and down the Raider Truck's main area, feeling like a caged animal. Going to sleep would probably be the wisest thing he could do, even uncomfortably curled up in the driver's seat, but would he be able to find sleep at all?

And then there was that unexpected mission awaiting him at Dunesea, on top of everything else. Getting to Mega-City Two seemed a small thing in comparison before the face of history; all of a sudden responsibility pressed down on him like a mountain.

It's only right it should be you. After all, you're Fargo's flesh and blood.

I never asked for it. I never asked to be Fargo's son, to wear his face, to have all those expectations and hopes placed upon my shoulders.

But this is who you are, Joe. You were born to follow in his footsteps. You've never been anything else. Without it, you're nothing.

Yes. This is who I am.

Holding onto that thought eased his mind a little, though not much. He watched the minutes pass ever so slowly on the console's time display. By now it was well past midnight in this time zone. Two more hours, maybe three, and the first dim light of dawn would be creeping up on the desert; the sun rose very early this time of year.

Hershey was one hour ahead, one hour closer to morning. He wondered what she was doing right now. On duty? Off? With the current situation, shifts would be long and rough.

Another vehicle appeared on the road, and Dredd followed its progress on the radar screen. Large and armoured, according to the readouts. About half the size of the Landraider. Patton could probably have told him the exact type. It was moving slowly, though it certainly had the capability for higher speed. Caution, most likely, but then again, a slow-moving vehicle was easier to ambush.

It crawled past the rock hiding the Landraider, then it suddenly stopped. Dredd tensed. For one or two minutes it just sat there motionless, then the radar showed two figures separating from it. Either human or mutants. Large, therefore most likely male. Heading towards the Landraider slowly. And one of them... yes, one of them was carrying a rifle, the radar showed its outline in yellow.

Dredd rose and took a quick stride over to the weapons console. His hand hovered over the activation button. Dealing with those two would be easy, they would be dead before they knew what hit them, quite literally. Nonetheless he decided against it. Dead men answered no questions.

He picked up his Lawgiver from the tactical table and zipped up his jacket. If he wanted to get out undetected, he had no time to lose. Hastily he hit the manual door controls, then slid it shut behind him and dropped down to the ground quietly, immediately rolling under the Raider Truck for cover, peeking out, listening. They could not be around the rock yet, but soon they would be.

The night air was clear and cold, the desert serene and silent. There was no sound but his heartbeat, none at all –

There, the crunch of gravel beneath a foot, then silence again, then again a footstep. At least one of them was crossing the stretch of rock shards beside the rearing-up huge slab of stone that hid the Landraider in its deep shadows. Noiselessly Dredd moved across the soft sand on his elbows and knees, keeping to the darkness. The waning moon outlined the landscape beyond the rock outcropping in stark black and white; crouching down in the cover of a rock tooth, he warily gazed across it. Footsteps again, very close now...

Then he saw the man, a large, hunched shape in the moonlight, rifle at the ready, surveying the Landraider. Dredd raised his Lawgiver and pointed it at the man, waiting. Where was the other one?

For a little while they both remained like that, motionless. Then Dredd decided to bring the other man out into the open. "Stun!" he hissed and pulled the trigger, and as the large man convulsed and fell, he already leapt sideways to avoid the expected counterattack from the man's companion, rolling across jagged bits of rock that painfully poked into his ribs and coming back to his feet behind another broad rock tooth, Lawgiver at the ready –

The force of the impact slammed him to the ground, and the Lawgiver fell from his hand and slid out of reach. "Gotcher!" a deep voice grunted above him. A heavy weight was pressing down on him, and the sour stench of old sweat filled his nostrils. How could someone of that considerable size have moved so swiftly and quietly? He twisted beneath the man, struggling against him silently. Fighting on the ground had never been his field of preference, but he was well versed in it. Inch by inch he turned onto his side, then in a surprise attack hooked his legs around one of the other's and pushed against him with his shoulder, as hard as he could. Immediately the weight on top of him lessened. In turn he tried to roll his opponent over and pin him down, but the man was heavy, quite a bit heavier than he was, he assumed, and had long, thick arms that wouldn't keep still. Once he almost had him in an arm lock, but his opponent was extremely strong and somehow managed to break out of it just in time, before he had quite grasped him right.

This had not been a good idea after all. It was one of those moments where he wished Rico were with him.

Somehow he managed to get his arm around the other's neck. Bracing himself against the ground with both legs, he threw his full weight on his opponent sideways, pressing his ribcage into the other's, which earned him a very satisfying grunt. It wasn't the best holding position he could be in, but it was a start. Lowering his head to keep it out of reach of the other's free hand uselessly punching and slapping at his back, he squeezed as hard as he could. Hopefully the other man had not recovered yet. "Keep still if you want to leave this place alive," he growled.

"I'm not submittin' to common bandits!" his opponent choked out, grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled.

Suppressing a yelp was hard, but luckily Dredd managed to catch the offending hand with his own free one and to twist the other's little finger around so much he let go immediately. Wearing his helmet would have made this easier. "I'm not a bandit, creep!" he snarled. The man was struggling hard; Dredd's boot heels dug deep furrows into the sandy ground as he did his best to maintain control.

"Well, neither 'm I!"

Dredd tightened his hold as much as he could. The other man might be back on his feet any moment. "What are you, then?"

"Freelancer," the big man panted. "Trader 'n' bounty hunter. Now leggo!"

Cautiously Dredd loosened his grip, and when the man made no sign of moving at all, he let go and leapt for his Lawgiver in the same motion. But, much to his relief, the man merely sat up slowly, rubbing the side of his neck. "Figures," he rumbled in his deep voice, "with yer foreign accent 'n' stun gun 'n' big-ass tank 'n' all. I'd say yer was from Dunesea, 'cept yer don't sound nothin' like Dunesea. Not like a Tex, neither. Who the blazes are yer?"

"We're Judges from Mega-City One, on our way to Dunesea." No need to explain about their mission. "I saw you on the radar and thought I'd go check." He used his empty hand to brush some of the dust off his uniform, but didn't lower the Lawgiver all the way just yet. Out here, it was wise to be wary around strangers.

The man laughed, a rumble like a landslide. "Same here. Screen showed some big hidden mother, so Jethro 'n' me thought we'd check." Getting up to his knees, the large man squinted towards where the other one had fallen and seemed to be stirring by now. "That's one strong-ass stun, my friend." He was dressed in rough clothing of an indefinable fabric, possibly partly denim, from what it had felt like on the ground, with a thick piece of cloth wrapped around his head, untidy strands of dark hair hanging loose all around it, into a broad stubbly face. "Name's Otis McCoy. Who might yer be?"

"Joe Dredd. Senior Judge."

"Thought ye boys was wearin' helmets all the time."

"Most of the time," Dredd said dryly.

The other man, equally tall, broad-shouldered and stout, had gotten back to his feet by now and came staggering over, dragging his rifle behind him. He seemed to have a thick moustache. "Whistlin' moley! That stunner for sale, by any chance?" If anything, he actually sounded pleased.

"My brother Jethro," Otis introduced him. "Guess what, bro, we got ourselves one genooine Judge from the Big Meg!"

"Oh. So the stunner's not for sale."

"No," Dredd confirmed. "It's keyed to my DNA anyway. Would self-destruct in your hand."

"Heard o' those," Jethro said. "Nifty. Well, figures yer's a soldier. Never 'xpected yer to shoot so fast. Thought I'd draw yer out by lookin' harmless."

No point in correcting the man's mistake. "Your brother got me, if that's any consolation." Brushing the dust from his knees, Dredd finally got back up on his feet. It seemed he had collected a handful of bruises on this little escapade.

"Gotcher? Don't I wish!" Otis laughed uproariously. "Yer one hell of a fighter! And I'm not just sayin' that, mind yer, I'm a fine fighter meself. Won prizes 'n' all." He, too, got back up at last. As Dredd could see now, both McCoy brothers were considerably taller than him, and, judging from their appearance, a good deal heavier. Not someone it was prudent to pick a fight with, though he had done rather well against them, considering. Was it his mind constantly dwelling on Rico that had made him so reckless?

But then again, he had to admit to himself, Hershey did occasionally complain about what she called his rashness and overconfidence, and she wasn't the only one. Until now it had all worked out well enough, though – despite, to be honest, a handful of close calls.

"Well," Otis continued, "since we's goin' to Dunesea too, I guess we'll see yer lot in the mornin'?"

"You will," Dredd agreed. Not that he was particularly eager for company, but locals might come in handy during the following day. Also, they would be helpful in deciding which route to take; he still hadn't made up his mind on the issue. "0500 sharp?"

Jethro gave a grunt, but Otis replied, "Suits me." With a ringing slap to his brother's shoulder that might have made a smaller man stagger, if not lose his balance, he added, "Then c'mon, yer great lazy sack, get some sleep!"

Laughing inwardly, Dredd went to press his palm to the Landraider's door sensor. Maybe he could find some sleep now, after all.

* * *

Anderson woke from Dredd returning to the Killdozer. He was clearly trying to be quiet, he even carried his boots in his hand, but then stubbed his toe somewhere in the darkness and hissed a curse that startled her awake completely. Apparently he had gotten bored at his console after all and given up his silly attitude. As if he needed no sleep! Anderson snorted inwardly.

She was being unfair, though, probably. From her sense of him, he had not been trying to prove anything; there had been something on his mind that had kept him awake until now.

"You can turn the light on," she suggested. "I'm awake anyway."

"No need." Proving himself wrong, he stumbled over her boots.

Anderson rolled her eyes. "Just turn it on." With the Landraider hidden away in the shadows of a large rock formation, hardly any light at all came in through the windows above the console, and only part of what little there was made it past the wall with the engine controls, its weak tiny lights not making much difference.

This time Dredd obliged. Anderson saw now that he was carrying his jacket and T-shirt over his arm, too, and that a large fresh bruise decorated his side, and there were smaller ones on his arm and his shoulder. His hair was in complete disarray too, but that seemed to be its usual state. Someone who wore a helmet even when it wasn't strictly necessary was bound to have little regard for his hair. It surprised her that he didn't wear it shorter or shave it off completely. "What have you been doing?" she asked.

He retrieved his blankets from their usual place and started spreading them out opposite hers. "You'll find out tomorrow."

She could have read his mind, of course, but she was too tired right now – apart from the fact that she would have had a bad conscience about it. Tomorrow, then. Maybe he had walked into something in the Raider Truck and fallen over? Now that would be an embarrassing way to get bruised. If so, he was probably hoping she had forgotten about asking the next morning. Smiling to herself at the idea, she pulled her blankets around her, eyelids fluttering, about to go back to sleep.

He went to turn out the light. The skin on his back was peeling a bit, she noticed before the Killdozer went dark once again. Luckily the sun had scarcely affected her own skin; her legs had been reddened slightly, but by now they were long back to normal. Yawning, she rolled over and settled down to sleep. From what he had announced, they would have to be awake again early enough, anyway.

* * *

"Sternhammer's all quiet," Scarpia reported. "We're free to deal with Bolland."

Hershey nodded curtly. Welcome news, for once. This had taken far too long. "Good. Have the tanks ready to move in ten."

"They _are_ ready, sir."

Already? Hershey couldn't help raising her eyebrows in surprise, but since she was wearing her helmet, neither he nor any of the other Judges with her saw it. "Inform them they're moving in five, then." The man was doing a fine job. Also, he was very pretty, even with a good part of his face hidden, even in the darkness of the night. "Tuscan's squad is staying behind and watching Peach Trees and Sternhammer. Gardner gets two tanks and patrols the area between the overpass access and Ennis Junction."

Scarpia saluted; somehow he managed to make it a lazy, very casual kind of motion while still conforming to regulations. "Yes, sir." Hershey indulged herself with a glance at his leather-clad backside as he strode through the dimmed glow of a patrol wagon's headlights towards their makeshift command centre.

"Nice ass," Gibson muttered to her before she had decided on whether to suspect him of doing the same thing. At the same time he was checking his Lawgiver to appear inconspicuous. "Too bad that ass is sitting in an SJS office."

"Precisely why you should keep your paws away from it," Hershey said dryly. Gibson could be a fool sometimes, but luckily he was far from stupid. "C'mon, let's get moving. I have an unconditional surrender to negotiate."

* * *

_**If you haven't yet checked out that Facebook petition, DO IT NOW.**__ OR GAZE INTO THE FIST OF DREDD._  
_(and if you don't know that last line, you might want to enter it into Google Image Search)_


	12. Dunesea

_**Author's Note:  
**__Because I got asked several times: The McCoys aren't a nod at Star Trek (though I do love Star Trek!), they actually appear in the comics ("The Alabammy Blimps", The Complete Case Files vol. 11)._

_Thanks a lot for reviewing, you guys. Hearing from you is great and really makes my day.  
__**Anastasia**__ -_ _I'd be honoured._ _Since you don't have an account here, could you perhaps leave me an e-mail or something? (Careful, the site might edit it out of a review if it recognises it as e-mail or URL!)_

* * *

**12. Dunesea**

It turned out there were a lot more of the McCoys than Dredd had expected. Apart from the pair he had met the night before, Otis and Jethro, there was yet another brother, Colin, equally tall, but leaner, a sister they called Cookie, and Jethro's wife and three children, two boys and a girl, who were overexcited at seeing the Landraider. The lot of them seemed to be excited really, but the adults just concealed it better as they stood around the vehicle admiring it.

"So, the McCoys," Spikes said. "Heard of you. Rumoured to carry quite a bit of firepower."

"Spikes Rotten? Heard o' yer too." Jethro grinned under his big brown moustache and round sunglasses. "Small-time bandit, eh?"

"I'm not a bandit!" Spikes protested, drawing himself up and pushing out his narrow chest in a manner that reminded Dredd of the peacocks he had seen strutting around the Mega-City Zoo.

"No, he's smaller than that," Dredd remarked dryly, ignoring the punk's glare. "So you've got a reputation? As bounty hunters, I expect?" Just before their meeting he had had Patton establish a satellite uplink – which had only worked at the fourth attempt – and entered their names into the Hall of Justice database, but the search had yielded nothing.

"We do!" Otis drew himself up proudly in turn, to his full impressive height."We's the feudin' McCoys!"

"Thought we agreed on fightin'," Jethro put in.

"Right, the feudin', fightin' Mc Coys."

"Might as well put feedin' in there," Colin spoke up, slapping his stomach, "since we do a lotta that."

"And funnin'!" his sister suggested, noisily slapping his backside. She was a stout woman with her dark hair in two thick braids.

"Yeah, yeah!" Otis put up his large hands. "We's the feudin', fightin', feedin', funnin' McCoys. Any other good word startin' with F yer want in there?"

Spikes's grin was nearly wide enough to split his face in half. "None comes to mind."

"Flatin'," Jethro suggested.

Otis's brow knitted into a frown beneath his sun-bleached hat. "Yer bein' dumb, Jethro. Ain't no such word."

Jethro snorted. "Is too."

"Ain't," Otis repeated.

"Is!" Jethro insisted, swatting at his brother with his hat, thereby revealing a partially bald head. Otis immediately snatched his own hat off his head –

"Let's just agree on flating," Dredd said quickly. Whatever that was supposed to mean. "Now, which way to Dunesea?"

"Only one way, o' course," Otis said promptly. "The road. 'Less yer feelin' overly advenchoorous." And he laughed heartily. "Been thinkin' o' goin' in a straight line? Forget it, my friend. With yer big-ass tank, yer might well make it, but down there's Rovers territory. Them bastards gonna come at yer with big-ass cannons 'n' all. And if they don't get yer, the mutie beasts will. Unless yer got body parts to spare." Again he laughed his booming laugh, with his family members joining in, Jethro's wife laughing equally loudly and slapping her thighs. "They say one o' them chomped ol' Pete Horton's willy right off when he got out for a piss, 'n' now he's bangin' his wife with a rubber replacement."

"Sounds... inconvenient," Dredd stated. Spikes as well as the twins were laughing almost as hard as the assembled McCoy family, he recognised Patton's quiet chortle behind him, and unless he was mistaken, he had singled out a sort of mirth from Anderson among the others, too. As it was, he couldn't quite suppress a grin himself.

"'Nconveenyent, he says!" Otis was going red in the face with glee already. "Sure it is!" And he cast Anderson a glance that implied he suspected closer relations between them than the Hall of Justice allowed.

Dredd chose to ignore it. "The road it is, then."

* * *

Soon they were on their way, the McCoys' vehicle directly ahead of the Landraider. It was an odd vehicle, that one, a mix between a truck and one of those old campers Dredd had seen in pictures, with a pair of machine guns mounted on the roof. While they wouldn't stand a chance against the Landraider, bandits would most likely think twice before trying to waylay that family van.

Like he had estimated, they would arrive at Dunesea late at night, according to what the McCoys had told him. Patton had already passed the message on to the city, and it had been confirmed by some official. Dredd would probably have to familiarise himself with the names of the officials as found in their briefing folders, but for now he couldn't bring himself to care. His additional mission was unpleasant enough without bringing politics into it. But of course, in this case, separating the mission from politics was downright impossible.

"I'm gonna go catch up with some sleep," he told the others. "Anderson's in charge. Wake me in two hours' time at the most."

Anderson gave him one of those looks where he wasn't sure what to make of it, but he went past her into the Killdozer without trying to find out what exactly bothered her. She was in charge by simply following the chain of command, there was no discussion there. Putting Patton in charge would be an insult to her. Or was it something else?

Whatever it was, it would have to wait for two hours.

* * *

Spikes got to take the wheel for the first time, watched closely by Patton. Anderson wasn't sure whether Dredd would have allowed it, but Dredd had withdrawn for a while, so it was up to her, and she trusted Patton's judgement – and appreciated anything that shut Spikes up, at least temporarily.

Being in charge unpleasantly brought back to mind that she had work of her own to do, work she had avoided until now. There was another twin she had to look at more closely. She should have done it much earlier on already, but she had to admit it to herself, she was afraid of what she would find by now.

And she would have to look at Dredd's mind, too. This somewhat worried her as well. He would probably hate the idea, and even refuse, maybe. Maybe he would be angry that she even asked. But was there a point in searching Andrin's mind before she had seen Dredd's and knew what she should expect?

She was making excuses, she realised. But she clung to them, just to avoid an unpleasant duty for a little longer.

And eventually she would have to report on it. _Nobody_ should report on something like that, lay others bare like a patient cut open! How strong her feelings were about this surprised even herself. Telling anyone what she had found in Thiago's deepest subconscious felt like betrayal to her, now she had gotten over the initial shock at the intense and violent images lurking there. But it was his dark side, his animal side, wasn't it? Everybody had a right to have an animal side, as long as he kept it in check! The boy was nice enough otherwise, pleasant, sweet, without any inappropriate violent notion she could detect.

With a sigh, Anderson sat down at the table and rested her forehead in her hand. She had a headache coming on, but maybe this was just her worrying.

"Are you OK?" Thiago asked cautiously, slipping onto the bench opposite her.

"Fine," she assured him with a smile that felt awfully faked to her. "Where's Andrin?"

"Tidying up the bunk." He answered her smile with a tentative one of his own that slowly faded. "Nobody says we should, not now... not anymore... but... Gradgrind wanted it that way." His voice trembled as much as his lower lip as he uttered the last words, and he got up hastily and rushed back to his bunk, where his brother was. She couldn't have grabbed his sleeve in time, but she made no move for it, because it was right there in his mind: He was a Fargo clone, and Fargo clones did not cry. There was nothing she could do for him.

It made her even more aware of the hole she still felt gaping inside her chest.

* * *

As the Landraider ground to a stop, Dredd woke with a start. Why were they stopping? Then he remembered that they didn't have a functioning toilet currently and rolled over onto his side once more. Apparently someone had a tiny bladder, for them to stop again so soon; it couldn't have been two hours yet, or else someone would have come for him already. Pulling the blanket around himself, he closed his eyes once more.

When he woke again, he realised immediately that the Killdozer was much too bright for it to be relatively early morning outside. Damn it! For how long had he slept? Kicking back his blankets, he quickly got up, pulled on his boots and went to join the others, snatching up his jacket as he went.

As he stormed into the Raider Truck in a fairly foul temper, he almost ran into Anderson, who took one look at his face and recoiled. "What did I tell you about waking me?" he snarled.

"I... I'm sorry, sir," she mumbled. "I just came to check on you..." Her dark eyes were wide like a frightened animal's under his glare, and it only added to his annoyance. "OK, I sensed you were awake and angry and came to check on you. But I can explain, sir!" she hastened to add. "I peeked in after two hours, but you were fast asleep. Half an hour later I nudged you, but you wouldn't wake, so I thought, well, if you were _that_ tired, I'd better let you sleep." Her expression was all wide-eyed innocence. "If I may say so, you're pushing yourself too hard. You don't need to be awake and alert right now. I sent the cadets to bed too; they kept yawning over their books." Probably encouraged by his lack of interruptions, she flashed him a small smile. "Might have been the civil law that bored them, though."

Dredd sighed. His anger had simmered down to mild irritation by now. The girl meant well, though it made him mildly suspicious that she was starting to sound like Hershey. Had his friend put her up to this? No matter. At least he was well rested. "What's the time?" he asked, resigned.

"Past three in the afternoon."

Oh. Wow. He had slept for more than nine hours then. Nearly ten. This was a little embarrassing, actually. "Did I miss anything?"

She shrugged. "Not much. Crappy old cars, villages that fell apart, rocks, dust, trees, thorny bushes, sand, the occasional group of riders, yellowish grass, a huge cactus, more sand, more rocks, and did I mention sand?"

"Well, pity I didn't see all the lovely sand." About to pull on his jacket, Dredd changed his mind. It was far too hot in the Landraider once again. "Why don't _you_ get some rest, for a change? No need for both of us to be awake."

"Thank you, sir. I'm fine. And I'll tell Patton to stop now."

"Why –" Oh. "Have you been in my head just now?"

It seemed Anderson was trying hard not to grin. "At that distance, I don't need to. You're pretty much broadcasting it."

Dredd inwardly rolled his eyes. How could one stop oneself from, as she had put it, broadcasting? "I'll tell him myself."

* * *

The rest of the journey was just as uneventful as the part Dredd had slept through. They took turns driving, occasionally passing other vehicles or caravans on horseback, once even a group of people shrouded all in black walking on foot. As Anderson had said, there were villages beside the road or built nearby on the bank of the Platte river, small settlements consisting just of a bunch of hovels, often surrounded by hedges, and usually the hedges bordered on fields on the other side, sparse crops being watered by channels, or sometimes by hand. Either way, the arrival of the Landraider regularly interrupted the fieldwork and caused considerable excitement.

The McCoys sometimes stopped in one of those villages, but always caught up with the Landraider once more sooner or later. Their bulky vehicle, built for travel rather than for combat, was still smaller and faster than the Hall of Justice's all-terrain behemoth. Once, the sun nearing the horizon already, they fell back for a longer time, but since Patton had to refuel the Landraider from the canisters in the cargo hold, a break that was extended into a longer stop – having dinner in the shade beneath trees had a certain charm, even Dredd had to admit that –, the cheerful family found them again eventually.

When dusk began to creep over the land, Dredd finally managed to convince Patton to get some rest as well and took over the wheel once more. The twins had returned to resume their studies previously and had even unpacked their focus mitts and done some punching and kicking for perhaps half an hour, but then disappeared back into their sleeping quarters. Spikes played the guitar for a while, but then put it away and settled down comfortably behind the tactical table.

By nightfall the villages they passed were brightly lit, usually by large torches amid the houses, but quiet. Did they fear bandits, or did the bandits live in the villages themselves? Or was it mutated creatures they worried about? Out of curiosity, Dredd regularly checked the radar, but nothing resembling an animal of any kind showed up nearby. One could almost think there were none, but after seeing the strange praying mantis creature the day before, he was more careful about such assumptions.

"Yeah, it's the motor sounds," Spikes confirmed Dredd's suspicions when he asked him about it, "turn it off, and you may find yourself surrounded. It's creepy as hell." Yawning, the punk stretched out on one of the benches by the table again, as he did so often, his feet sticking out into the corridor.

As they neared Dunesea, the villages grew larger and less far between, as did the trees and thickets by the nearby riverside, the occasional radiation binder looming up among them, despite relatively low radiation levels. Eventually trees started lining the road, too, and there seemed to be grass beyond it, sloping down to the river. This might be an intriguing place to travel by day, a reconstruction of America's landscape of old, but there was no time for sight-seeing now. Finally the lights of the city became visible ahead, painting the cloudy night sky pink above it.

Anderson had dozed off in the seat beside him; Dredd couldn't have said for how long exactly she had been asleep. As the illuminated domes behind high walls gleaming palely became clearly visible ahead, Dredd gently nudged her awake. "I think you want to see this," he muttered to her, so as not to wake Spikes.

Himself, he had seen pictures of Dunesea before, but Anderson probably hadn't; she was admiring the sight before her with wide-eyed fascination as they approached it. A wall of milky white rising above the dark water, mirrored in the gently swirling currents, straight towers and spiralling spires reaching into the night sky high above them, domes glittering with myriads of lights in blue and gold filling the spaces inbetween. "It's beautiful," Anderson whispered, and Dredd had to agree. This really was an impressive sight, a small island of beauty within a sea of desolation.

"Go wake the others," Dredd told her after he had given her a little time to look. "Make sure the cadets are in full uniform."

"Yes, sir." Anderson was on her feet at once, her bleached hair flying behind her as she practically ran back to the sleeping quarters. The girl was excited for sure.

By the time they reached the wide bridge that took them across the river widening almost into a lake, to the island in its midst that held the city, the twins bounced up and down behind Dredd's seat in their uniforms and with their helmets on their heads. Anderson was dressed completely too, though she held her helmet under her arm, as usual. Patton was wearing his normal brown, including the cap, Tek Division's crest embroidered over the left side of his chest, with his name above it in black letters on a strip of gold. Even Spikes had bothered to put on a clean orange sweater.

"Take over," Dredd told Patton and proceeded to put on his own vest, slipped the belt through the loops and then took his helmet from the storage compartment. He had not worn it in over twenty-four hours, which felt strange. But those Dunesea officials should meet Judges sprung from the textbook, no matter how long their journey had been.

They were intercepted by three small black vehicles with flashing yellow lights on their roofs, two for the Landraider and one for the McCoy family's transport. Dredd did not miss the cannon muzzles almost hidden by the cars' head light covers. While the McCoys had to climb out for inspection, the Landraider was escorted straight towards the gate. Dredd raised a hand in greeting to Otis as they passed the family, and the bounty hunter returned a wave. Of course he was laughing.

"This is my favourite part," Spikes announced as the huge gate, milky white as the wall and high enough to allow at least two Landraiders on top of each other, swung open and a massive portcullis behind it was raised. "Like in the fantasy movies! The Black Gate opens, and the armies of Mordor pour out... Don't give me that look, Judgey!"

"You can't see what look I'm giving you," Dredd reminded him patiently. "The thing on my head is called a helmet."

"I can _feel_ your look. Also, the gravitational pull is stronger at the corners of your mouth than at the rest of you, for some reason."

"Gravitational. Such a complicated word from you. That's a surprise."

Spikes snorted. "Wanna hear me say _constitutionalism_?"

"No thanks. You might get political."

Spikes merely snickered in response. Luckily he was too busy admiring the gate as they passed through it to utter any other long words, or any words at all.

From the outside one couldn't quite guess the structure's dimensions. The gate was the mouth of a tunnel brightly lit in white, yellow and green, and other tunnels forked off in both directions to continue inside the wall, two in each direction, lit signs above them listing main quadrants – Dredd could see south and west announced above the tunnel mouths to their left – and further destinations. One was lit in patterns of yellow and orange and led straight through yet another raised portcullis into what must be a structure adjacent to the wall. Not the usual destination for incoming traffic, Dredd presumed. Their escort guided them into what strongly reminded him of Tek Division's hangar halls, light of cyan blue slanting across the hulking shapes of parked jeeps and tanks in uniform hues of green and black. Behind the Landraider, the portcullis had been lowered again, no doubt; it seemed unlikely that the McCoys would be guided in here. This clearly was government property.

Patton showed remarkable skill at manoeuvring the Landraider into an empty corner backwards, parking it perfectly parallel to the rockcrete wall glistening with tiny bluish lights. Without any comment on this impressive feat he shut down the engine and the main systems and got up from his seat. "Ready to go, sir."

"How often do you park tanks?" Dredd couldn't help asking.

"All the time, sir. Since I once completely ran over a desert buggy with a Manta Destroyer, I'm more careful."

"Did you get into trouble for that?" Anderson asked as they headed for the Raider Truck's door.

Patton shrugged, wearing a little grin now. "It was an old buggy with a bent front axle and a rusty chassis, so not really. But explaining to my superior officer how it got so flat overnight was a bit awkward."

It was calming to know that the engineer wasn't perfect either, Dredd thought as they disembarked. The man had shown no faults or flaws at all until now, except perhaps a fondness for those sentimental love songs Spikes liked to play at times.

Much to his relief, there were few formalities Dredd had to suffer through. He had gone through his files in preparation and even grudgingly memorised the most important names, but the government representative in sky-blue uniform with gold embroidery who received them, a slim grey-haired lady somewhat reminiscent of Judge McGruder, was not one for unnecessary flowers of speech. Introducing herself as Colonel Mina Westphal, Secretary of Security – Dredd recognised both name and office, she was the second-most powerful person in the entire city –, she immediately added, "You must be tired, so let's postpone the official crap until you've had some rest and a large breakfast." Dredd decided he liked Colonel Westphal.

They got a chance to pick up the luggage they were going to need. Then, while men in uniforms of various hues of green took their belongings, they were ushered into an elevator that wasn't, for once, lit by many small coloured lights, but the lamp had a weird bluish tinge, for Dredd's taste; it succeeded in giving even the bronze-skinned Patton an unhealthy complexion. What was it with these people and their coloured lights? They nearly put the Pleasure District to shame!

They exited on Level 145, according to the annoyingly pleasant female computer voice, and found themselves in a corridor dimly lit in ocean green. The opposite wall was made of glass, all the way up to the ceiling, and granted a breathtaking view over the city's pale domes and towers and its patterns of colourful lights. Dredd was tempted to stop and take in the sight for a moment, but suppressed the urge. The twins and Anderson were gaping enough for the lot of them.

Around the bend and through a transparent door to a hangar decorated with the obligatory assortment of small yellow and blue lights, a large yet sleek turquoise hovercar awaited them. Dredd was grateful it wasn't covered in lights as well, or only in a relatively small number, considering.

While the men in green loaded their luggage into its back with astonishing speed, they crowded into the vehicle. Dredd would have liked to claim a window seat, but according to protocol he probably had to sit with their host. This wasn't so bad, it turned out, since Colonel Westphal got in at the front with the driver, a woman in the same military blue she wore, but with a lot less insignia of rank. Lieutenant at the most, Dredd guessed. The view through the front screen was quite satisfyingly spectacular.

"I'd ask whether you had a pleasant journey," Westphal said as they started out around a gleaming white dome, "but I doubt it was."

"We lost a man."

"So I hear. I can only hope his sacrifice was worth it."

His sentiment exactly. "Any news from Mega-City Two?"

Westphal nodded. "There is hope yet. A good part of the south is barricaded against the rest of the city currently. They even hold a small shuttle port again, for all the good it does them. There's little supplies to be had outside the walls, and we daren't fly the entire distance, not with weather conditions as they are."

"Good news all the same," Dredd said. "It means they can spread the counteragent from the air." By now they were travelling a sky lane between buildings, hardly frequented so late at night. "I only hope they hold out until we reach them."

"If you leave the day after tomorrow," the colonel offered, "our carrier can take you as far as Sunderland, south-west of the Black Hills. That's five hundred kilometres, roughly, across sometimes difficult terrain and past an irradiated region."

There was no need to consider this. "We'd be grateful." He had expected to travel across open desert for at least another two days, if not more, before they reached the mountains.

Westphal nodded. "Did you know Harvey Rutten is wanted for arson here?" she changed the topic abruptly.

"I didn't do it!" Spikes promptly protested from the row of seats directly behind them.

Dredd waved him into silence imperiously, and to his own surprise it actually worked. "Arson? Well, I arrested him on more than one vandalism charge, so I'm ready to believe it, but I have need of him still."

"I didn't!" Spikes complained.

"Be that as it may," Colonel Westphal continued, ignoring him, "as long as he's working for you, we're extending your diplomatic immunity. But only this time."

Luckily they landed on a platform high above the city's glowing domes just then; this conversation was turning awkward. Spikes seemed to feel the same, for he jumped out of his seat pretty quickly and was the first to leave the hovercar.

The platform belonged to a tall building in the middle of the island city, the top of a tower rising above it, shining with intricate patterns drawn by small lights of gold. More men in green rushed out to unload the vehicle, and Dredd and his companions were escorted into the light-flooded mouth of a corridor with walls covered in mosaics depicting star formations. The tiled white floor was mostly hidden by colourful carpets.

"You're getting the ambassadorial suite," Colonel Westphal explained, walking beside Dredd at a brisk pace that easily matched his own. "There's four bedrooms, so some of you will have to share. You can of course have additional rooms, but they'd be two floors down."

"Four bedrooms are more than enough, sir," Dredd assured her. "The Landraider only has two." Maybe he would even get one to himself this time. Not that he minded sharing with Anderson. But maybe he would want to be alone tonight, what with the task that awaited him once morning came.

One of the green-clad men opened a door for them, and they found themselves in a kind of entrance hall the like of which they had not seen before. It was a relatively small, almost circular room, with decorative pillars along the walls, and ahead of them an impressive staircase of some kind of white rock veined with bits of red and green – was that marble? – forked around an arched doorway, only to meet above it and become one. There were arched doorways to their left and right too, above the one on the left it said DINING ROOM in tiny yellow lights, above the other one the lights spelled out BATH.

"Dinner is awaiting you," the colonel said. "You've had a long day, so I'll leave you now. There'll be breakfast tomorrow at 0900, and then we can discuss matters further."

After she and the green-clad retinue were gone, Dredd could only just keep Spikes and the twins from storming the dining room. First they were to take their luggage up to their respective bedrooms; he was adamant about it. This way he hoped to cut the discussions about who slept where short. His plan worked out; they only spent a minute on the landing with the suite description Dredd had been handed by one of the green-clad men before it was agreed that the twins would get the large bedroom with the king-size bed and the adjacent whirlpool and Spikes would move into the small one with the red curtains. Patton got a similar-looking one, only with dark green curtains, on the opposite side, while Dredd and Anderson once again shared a sleeping place. Unlike the twins' room, it had one four-poster bed on each side, and the carpet on the floor was almost obscenely thick and soft. They even had pyjamas laid out on the blankets, cotton shorts and tank top in light grey. The adjacent bathroom didn't have a whirlpool, but a shower with an immense head that would probably create the sensation of standing in a warm tropical rain. Despite himself, Dredd itched to try it out. It made him wonder what exactly lay behind that doorway over which the lights proclaimed "bath", though. He could have checked the description, but the twins had taken it along.

They met again in the dining room, which was comparatively small. The table, covered in a dark blue table cloth with gold stitching, was laden with pots and steaming platters. Though they had had a small dinner already, it had been hours ago, and everybody's appetite was stoked by the delicious smells wafting through the room. They sat down and helped themselves.

Here meat was "the real thing", as Spikes told them while fishing a generous slice of chicken breast baked with cheese and nuts from one of the platters. They actually bred animals here that were to be eaten.

In the act of transferring a slice of beef to his plate, Patton stopped at that. "What? Those are from real animals?"

"Yep," Spikes confirmed. "It's quite the luxury."

Almost reverently, Patton replaced the meat on its platter. "Can't eat an animal. I'd feel bad about it."

"Fine," Spikes remarked, "the more for me. We're carnivores by nature, Jack." He stuffed a huge piece of chicken into his mouth. "Or omnivores, technically," he added while chewing, barely intelligible.

Dredd speared the slab of beef before him with his fork and started cutting. "Wow, Spikes, this is your day of complicated words." To be honest, he felt a little odd about eating what had been part of a live animal too. In Mega-City One, meat was grown in vats, or made synthetically, for those who couldn't afford better food. Cows were kept for their milk – again, for those who could afford real milk – and chickens for their eggs, but otherwise animals were only kept in zoos or in those fake farmyards that were such popular family destinations. Animals were well protected by the law; the average animal in Mega-City One possibly led a better life than its average human citizen.

There were plenty of other things for Patton to eat, though. The table held three pots full of various boiled vegetables and one with mushy vegetable stew that tasted a lot better than it looked, one with funny spiral noodles and three smaller ones holding different kinds of rice. Dredd tried everything, including the sauces and spices in small bowls. He had not intended to eat much, but after several days living mostly on pressed synthetic proteins and similar, this dinner was a temptation not even he could resist.

"So, Spikes," Dredd said after they had all had their first helping and were starting to reach for seconds, "Arson. What can you tell me about it?"

About to pick up the pot with the odd violet rice, Spikes stopped his motion in mid-air. "Nothing!"

"Don't lie to me. Or I'll tell Westphal you're waiving your immunity, and you can explain it to Dunesea's officials."

Spikes withdrew his hand. "You wouldn't."

The man had been useful on occasion until now, but they could have done without him. "Try me."

Spikes's narrow shoulders sagged. "'Twas an accident," he mumbled.

Ah. Just as Dredd had expected. "Go on."

The punk tugged at one of those ridiculous spikes of black-dyed hair. "I was out for drinks with some mates, and we… there was this logo thing on a wall, lots of little pink lights, and I thought it looked… well, with a bit of rearranging…" He practically squirmed in his seat. "I thought I could make it read BOOBIES."

As was to be expected, the twins snorted with laughter. Dredd managed not to. "But you couldn't."

"No," Spikes admitted. "I don't really know how it happened, but something short-circuited and caught fire. We tried to put it out, but it was too late, so…" He shrugged. "We ran for it. I left town the next day. Seems they caught one of my drinking buddies."

"Or you on camera, quite possibly." That sounded more like Spikes, an act of vandalism that had gotten out of hand. Spikes was a small-time perp with far too many stupid ideas for his own good, but Dredd doubted he would intentionally burn down a building.

"Can I keep my immunity?" Spikes asked carefully.

"For now." It would be entertaining to see him fidget.

When they finally agreed to head off to bed, they had eaten up most things on the table, despite Dredd's estimation that they wouldn't manage to eat half of it. The twins were so full that they had to discreetly open the buttons on their uniform trousers, but Spikes was rubbing his stomach and groaning too. Those three would lead a luxurious life here, with nothing to do except wait for their journey to continue. Dredd did not exactly approve, but what was he to do about it, make their life miserable purposefully in some way or another? Maybe in the punk's case, with that threat of withdrawing his immunity… No, for once he would let them enjoy themselves, he decided. They would be back out in the Cursed Earth soon enough.

* * *

The fog had fingers, crooked, pointy, spidery fingers that raised goosebumps on her skin.

The fog had tongues, sharp little tongues like needles. They pricked her ears as they whispered to her, of fear and flames and terror, of sickness and decay. Of death, over and over.

The ship was drawing nearer on roiling clouds, a ship large as a world on the midnight ocean. She saw it approach the window she was standing at, saw the sparks spring up, smelled the ozone. She knew what was happening, but there was no way of stopping it.

She knew she was dreaming, but there was no way of waking.

For a moment a face flashed through her awareness, burning itself into her senses and leaving an afterimage floating before her blinded eyes, a face like a grimace, fangs leering at her from beneath a mask that hid the eyes, but she knew without seeing them that they were not of this world.

At a distance spirits were wailing, mourning a world that was lost.

Anderson sat up in bed abruptly, clutching her blankets around her. Despite the room's warmth she shivered. The goose bumps were still there, so much it almost hurt, and the voices were echoing in her ears, wordless laments that chilled her to the bones.

The room was shrouded in shadows, but she did not need her eyes to see that the bed at the other side of the room was empty. It made her feel small and alone in the night. The blanket rustled as she shivered. Where was Dredd? She would have been glad for his presence, just to see him sleeping over there behind the half-closed bed curtains, or to at least feel his mind behind the bathroom door. It would have assured her that the world was just the way it had been when she had closed her eyes. All on her own, she suddenly wasn't sure anymore if she was awake or still dreaming, if this was still the world she knew or already the one she dreaded.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

Anderson resolutely pushed back the blanket and stepped out of bed. The carpet felt almost unnaturally soft underneath her feet; her toes practically sank into it. The door to the stairs was only half closed; he must have gone down. Taking her jacket from the sideboard – the pyjamas that had been provided for her were rather thin –, she threw it on while padding down the cool stone steps after him. This time she fumbled around longer than usual to find the second sleeve behind her back. Concentrating on the stairs – she did not want to turn on the light, and the shadows were deeper here than upstairs – it took her a while to realise that the leather felt strangely loose, the sleeves somehow oddly long, because it was Dredd's jacket she was wearing, not her own. He probably wouldn't mind, though.

She felt him before she saw him. Following her awareness of him, she passed through the arched doorway that parted the stairs in two, through an empty sitting room with another soft carpet completely muffling her footsteps, out onto a large balcony. There he was, looking out over the lights of the sleeping city. Still in uniform trousers and tank top, though he had taken off his boots, he might not have gone to bed at all in the meantime. When she came to join him at the rail, he acknowledged her with just a slight inclination of his head. He felt troubled, but she resisted the temptation to check inside his mind what was bothering him.

For a while they stood there in silence; she could not have said for how long. Beneath lay the lit domes and spires of the city, quiet and serene, and beyond them the unbroken darkness of the Cursed Earth. Finally he said, "I wish this burden had never come to me, but it's not up to me to decide, is it now? Nothing ever is."

This must still be about Gradgrind, Anderson assumed. No, she wouldn't read his mind. "We're halfway there," she came up with. "I'm sure the worst part's behind us."

He shook his head. "No, not the mission. The... the other mission. What I'll have to do tomorrow. It's out of my league. I'm a street Judge, and I don't want to be anything else. I'm not history book material."

"You're almost Fargo," she reminded him. "Fargo's son." That was how he had described it. "I don't know what this is about, but if not you, who else can do it?"

He laughed dryly. "Thanks for your confidence." His voice sounded flat, and raspy as ever. Was there a bit of sarcasm in his tone? Then suddenly it changed. "I want you with me tomorrow."

"Always, sir." The next moment she could have slapped herself. _Always_? That was the silliest-sounding thing she could possibly have said! What was she, some little cadet girl with her head full of thoughts of sappy romance? Alright, maybe she did have a crush on Dredd. Just a small one. But that was no reason to behave like that!

The corners of his mouth quirked up into a little smile, barely visible in the weak glow from the decorative golden lights above. "Glad to hear it." His hand briefly covered hers on the rail, a momentary touch of warmth before he withdrew.

Should she ask? Shouldn't she? If he wanted her with him the next day – the thought almost made her forget the sense of terror still lingering on the edges of her conscious mind – then she would find out soon enough anyway.

"Maybe you should go back to bed," he suggested. Only a short time ago she would not have thought it possible that his rough-sounding voice could take a gentle tone.

"Breakfast's at nine," she reminded him. True luxury. "Plenty of time 'til then." In truth, she didn't know what time it was currently, but she couldn't have slept long, since the sky was completely dark still, at least as far as she could see it. A pale moon stood high in the sky, partially obscured by clouds. "And what about you? Have you even been to bed yet?"

"I slept all day, remember? Also, I don't think I could sleep."

"Me neither," she said stubbornly. Maybe she could pester him into going to bed? Hershey would surely approve.

"You've been there," he returned flatly. "You can go there again."

"Can't," she insisted. When his features set into his trademark look of annoyance, she added hastily, "I had that nightmare again. The one I told you about. I kinda don't want to sleep right now." She still was far too easily intimidated by him, she observed, and it irked her somewhat.

His reaction was absolutely worth it, though. Turning to face her for the first time, he placed an arm around her shoulders. "It was a dream. Dreams can't hurt you."

He wouldn't understand. He couldn't, not without experiencing that feeling of terror or impending doom. There was no way he could. To him she must sound just like a silly scared girl. But she was grateful for the chance to snuggle up to him. It did not entirely dissipate the feeling that remained, but it was a very welcome distraction.

So close to him, his inner turmoil was a constant drone against her skin. She could feel the walls he had built up around himself without reaching out for him, but there was something else too, something… battering against them, trying to slither out underneath them. He did not want to be himself tonight.

It was hard not to read his mind, but she resisted the urge. He was there for her right now, so she owed him that much.

"You're wearing my jacket," he noticed.

"Yeah, sorry. Hope you don't mind." She had been about to call him "sir", but that would have seemed weird while snaking an arm around his waist. "I thought it was mine, until I was wearing it."

"I don't." He rested his head against hers, and it seemed to her that he was relaxing a little. Maybe this time he wouldn't withdraw so fast. Maybe he would be willing to make out. Just a little.

Idiot, she scolded herself, this isn't Larry Kensington, and you're not hiding in a maintenance closet! Grow up already!

Nuzzling her head under Dredd's chin, she wondered what Larry was doing currently. He had passed both his final exam and his assessment, that much she knew, but she had no idea where he was stationed. Once she got back, she needed to find out. However, that feeling of butterflies fluttering through her insides – if that was how they had described it in the old days; she wouldn't know, she had only ever seen pictures of butterflies – that feeling Larry had always caused was mostly gone now. The butterflies were concentrating on Dredd instead. And right now they were kicking up a riot, especially when he put his other arm around her too.

"Better now?" he asked. She could feel his breath against her hair.

A lot, actually. "A little." This felt just too nice for an honest answer.

He really felt calmer now, and at ease. Clearly her presence soothed him just as much as his soothed her. For some time they stayed that way, holding each other close. One of his hands wandered upwards to tangle itself in her hair. She closed her eyes, but the leering face from her nightmare didn't flash up again, not with him there.

Finally he lifted his head again. "Let's get you back to bed, shall we?" His voice had an almost teasing sound to it.

Anderson was reluctant to let go of him. "Only if you stay with me."

"Deal. C'mon." Her awareness of him dimmed as he let go of her.

She would have liked to hold his hand as they went up the stairs together, but that probably was too much to ask. This was Dredd, he probably wouldn't want to be caught dead holding anyone's hand. She and Larry had usually held hands when slipping into one of their hideouts, but Dredd wasn't a fellow cadet, he was her superior officer.

Still, he must have made out before. After all, he had actually had sex, something she and Larry had never gotten around to try. They had been far too nervous about getting caught, especially after Sebastian Sykes, Larry's best friend, had almost been expelled for being discovered in an empty classroom with that tall, curly-haired boy whose name she had never found out, with their pants off. It had been a warning to plenty of other cadets. There were several other nice things one could do in a closet, though.

Would Dredd want to do any of those things? The butterflies surged at that thought, and part of her wanted to swat at them with a heavy cudgel.

Once back at their room, Dredd helped her out of his jacket, simply dropping it onto the floor, and steered her towards her bed. He held up the blanket for her to get in, then pulled it over her once more. "Don't ask me to sing to you next," he grumbled.

Anderson giggled into her pillow. Even when he sounded gruff, by now she could tell when he was joking. "Don't worry. I'd only like you to sit with me and hold my hand."

With a sigh he sat down on the edge of the bed, brushing the curtain aside, and held out his hand. "Fine. For how long?"

Fighting back a huge grin was hard. "Until I say you can let go, of course," she replied, quickly snatching his hand before he changed his mind. Teasing him was proving to be very entertaining, and having him actually sitting with her holding her hand was a rather nice success.

Again he sighed, in an exaggerated way. "Fine. Move over." Swinging up his legs, he stretched out on the bed beside her. "I'm staying right here, but under two conditions: Keep your elbows to yourself, and don't pull the blanket away while I'm asleep."

Anderson automatically scooted over and let him have part of her blanket, feeling like the butterflies had just carried her over a pit and dropped her. Beside her, Dredd was making himself comfortable, while she was still trying to remember how to breathe. Dredd was in bed with her. Fully clothed, of course, but still... Larry had never lain in bed with her.

Get your mind out of the gutter, she scolded herself, this is Dredd! He's not thinking of that kind of thing!

Who knows, after that wicked dream he had...

No, you're staying out of his head!

It took her a moment to realise he had settled down, and she tried to relax as well. Just now she had been more than half willing to make out with him, and all of a sudden she grew so nervous she was close to jumping out of her skin and hiding under the bed? What was wrong with her? She _wanted_ to be close to him right now after all, or didn't she?

"Can you sleep now?" he asked, stifling a yawn. Of course he was tired, he just wouldn't admit it.

"I think so." Resting her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes and tried to put her mind to rest. He was much calmer now, too, her mental awareness of him wasn't buzzing at all any longer. He had really needed the comfort of her presence to find rest, she realised, maybe just as much as she needed him around.

With a small smile on her lips, she allowed herself to drift off once more.


	13. History

**Author's Note:**

_Chapters 1 and 2 have been revised slightly to correct some mistakes. Dredd is assigned to Sector House 13, not to the Hall of Justice._

Thank you to all those who took the time to leave me some feedback. It's very motivating, and it's helped me through a rough time at work.  
Also, feel free to criticise, or point out grammatical errors and similar. English is my second language, so I'm grateful for corrections.

* * *

**13. History**

As the first light of morning crept into the concrete landscape, Hershey got onto her bike and sped towards Brian Bolland block. That the rest of her own sector was quiet now filled her with a certain pride, and the new flare-up of resistance at Bolland came close to a personal insult. They had performed plenty of executions there already, and several arrests too, since some of the insurgents had chosen to surrender of their own free will and come quietly, so she had left part of her unit in the vicinity and taken the rest to Atlantic Tower for a raid. When the news of Bolland reached her, she left Gibson in charge and went to deal with the situation herself. There was no patience left in her, none at all.

Scarpia was already expecting her outside the block, lounging with his back against a Manta Mark V. When he saw her, he straightened and came towards her, but while there still was a spring in his gait, he didn't assume a position quite as rigidly upright as he had done in her presence in the beginning. It seemed he was starting to feel comfortable around her, just as she felt more or less comfortable around him in turn by now. "Remember that Maluco guy I shot yesterday? It's his brother. They barricaded the entrances into the block plaza, and they say they placed a bunch of kids on the other side so we don't simply dismantle them by artillery. We get no more video feeds, since they apparently took over the control room, but drone surveillance confirms it. They're currently making plans for an independent block city, or whatever you want to call it."

"Shit!" Hershey hissed. A new flare-up of resistance of this scale was the last thing she needed. "They don't seem to have war override, though?"

"Knocked out. They'll be fixing it as we speak."

"Shit," Hershey repeated.

"In case you want to deploy gas bombs, we'll have them within twenty minutes," Scarpia offered. "Won't take down the barricade, and we'll still have the kids behind them, gas or not, but –"

"No," Hershey interrupted. She had already made her choice. Her instructions had been clear. Any measure necessary. This was war. "Contact them. Tell them they have three minutes to dismantle the barricades on this entrance. If they're not down by then, we're blasting through, kids or not. Make sure it sounds like we mean business."

"Yes, sir." Scarpia hastened towards the patrol wagon parked nearby that held the large radio unit.

Hershey activated her bike's display and requested a status report from Control. The riots were really dying down by now, according to the map appearing on screen. There had been some upsurge in the southern sectors during the night, but since the east had gone quiet, the units that had thereby become available had converged on the centres of resistance, and by now there was little left to be smothered. The west was an entirely different matter, however.

As she noticed Scarpia approaching once more, she raised her head from the display. The SJS officer was in the company of Judge McFadden, currently in charge of her artillery. Hershey knew what that meant before Scarpia began his report. "Not complying yet. They think you're bluffing. Do you want me to give them another message?"

It was one of the uglier choices of her career, but not the hardest by far. "Do we have the surveillance footage on screen somewhere?"

"On mine," Scarpia said, holding out his left forearm to her.

There it was, the live feed from the drone circling high above, small in size, but she could make out what she needed to see. "McFadden, prepare to open fire."

McFadden motioned to the bulky Manta Destroyer parked among its smaller fellows, and the massive tank rolled into position ever so slowly while the artillery commander spoke into his comm, giving instructions on target and ammunition. Though she had spent considerable time around artillery by now, Hershey only understood part of what he was saying; the reason might be the many acronyms he was using.

"So you're going through with it, then?" Scarpia still looked mildly doubtful.

Hershey nodded grimly. "Watch me." War. So often its victims were innocent.

"Ready, sir," McFadden reported. What was visible of his face – Hershey believed she had never seen his entire face yet – seemed to look doubtful too, as if he expected her to back down at the last moment.

"Open fire." The words came just as easily as any other words.

McFadden hesitated; Hershey was pretty sure he had blinked under his helmet. What had he expected? That she wouldn't go through with it because she was young and lacked the experience in making ugly decisions? Those who reached the rank of Senior Judge below the age of forty were sometimes said to be soft in their command decisions, unhardened by plenty of years in the streets, but Hershey didn't know what rank was supposed to have to do with it. A rumour spread by jealous ones promoted at a later age, she suspected. McFadden relayed the order before she had to repeat it, though. And moments later the roar of the Destroyer rang across the square, thankfully muffled by her helmet.

Scarpia meant to withdraw his arm, but she placed a hand around his wrist. "I need to see this," she said. Though she had risen high enough to simply give orders, she still preferred to see who she killed. The moment lives became numbers in a report, she would lose the touch with reality. It was the least she could do for her victims. And while the drone cam showed her relatively little, her imagination could supply the rest.

"You've got balls," he said quietly after the Destroyer had fallen silent once more, too quietly for McFadden to hear.

Hershey studied the screen. There was little left to see except dust. Those darker shapes might be bodies, though. "For killing children?"

"For staying hard when you need to," he replied earnestly. "Plenty would have negotiated. But you don't get lost in detail. You have principles, and you go through with them."

Detail. Calling civilian casualties detail was very... well, SJS of him. Aloud, she said, "That doesn't require balls. I'm just carrying out orders."

"Yes it does," he insisted. "The one who pays the butcher's bill may just be the one to make the history books, no matter where the order came from."

Hershey shook her head. She wished he would just stop. "I doubt I'll ever go down in history."

"Maybe you'll go for coffee with me instead?"

This time, it was Hershey's turn to blink. He was smiling. Was he hitting on her? An SJS officer? Or was there something else behind it? "Well... yes," she answered, hoping she had not paused for too long. "After this is over, and after I've had a good night's sleep, we'll go for coffee." It certainly wasn't what she had expected.

As the tanks started moving into the block, she wondered what Gibson would have to say to this. There would never be an end to his teasing, most likely.

* * *

Anderson woke later than usual. The soft mattress and pillow felt strange to her; it took her a moment to remember where she was.

The next thing she remembered was Dredd. Where was he? The sound of running water from the bathroom informed her that he was taking a shower, apparently.

It was for the best. Waking up snuggled up to him might have developed into a pretty awkward situation.

This time she had not been woken by any of his dreams, or if she had, she did not remember. This, too, was for the best, probably.

Letting herself sink back into the almost decadently soft pillow, she closed her eyes again. Soon enough they would be on their way once more; she might as well enjoy this place as long as she could.

She had not seen the city by daylight yet, it occurred to her, and at once she jumped out of bed. Would the sight be as breathtaking as it was by night?

Before she had reached the large window, the bathroom door opened and Dredd emerged, freshly washed and shaved and with a towel wrapped around his waist – blue decorated in gold, like so many things here. "Breakfast in five," he told her, curt as ever.

Hastily snatching up the fresh underwear she had laid out on the sideboard the night before, she flitted into the bathroom past him. "Back out in four."

The room was small, tiled in the same colours as the staircase, with the shower taking up most of it. Standing in a rain of warm water that could be regulated from drizzle to downpour, it wasn't easy to hurry up, but with some effort of will she was just as fast as she had intended to be. Still drying her hair, she hastily pulled on her uniform, leaving out the protective parts, and rushed down the stairs, just in time to see a host of men and women clad in green bring in their breakfast on trolleys.

"Wow, check this out!" Spikes exclaimed, coming down after her. His hair was in wild disarray, for once, instead of in its usual style, but Anderson had no doubt that he would fix it after breakfast.

"Man," Thiago said, "what you really need to check out is _this_." And he pointed his thumb at the doorway opposite the dining room, the one over which the tiny lights spelled BATH. Andrin nodded to that.

Of course, she had completely forgotten about that. It had stoked her curiosity too last night. But following the procession of trolleys heading for the balcony with her eyes, she decided to postpone the exploration. First came breakfast and a spectacular view.

At an astounding speed a table was retrieved from a discreetly hidden cabinet in the outer wall, unfolded and laid out, six folding chairs were equipped with cushions – blue tasselled in gold, of course – and arranged around it, and within mere minutes they could sit down and tuck into their generous breakfast. Toasted white and brown bread, made from real grain, no doubt, sausages, ham, fried bacon, scrambled eggs with and without vegetables, a selection of cheese and an even larger variety of fruit, including munce of all colours. The jam certainly came from real fruit, and maybe the honey even came from real bees, who knew? There was milk and hot chocolate too, along with tea. Recalling the hot chocolate her parents had made for her on special days when she had been small, Anderson immediately chose that, but Dredd, grumbling about no coffee, chose that drink too, and the twins of course took the same. They were also displaying the same eating habits, Anderson noticed. In the end Patton was the only one who drank tea.

After breakfast some officials came to speak with Dredd, and Anderson used the time to accompany the twins to that mysterious bath to see what they were so excited about. As it turned out, they had good reason to be. The archway led into a tiny anteroom lit in blue and green, and from there a sliding door had to be activated. Behind it lay a dim changing room with wooden benches and an old-fashioned wooden floor, the only light coming from tiny pinpoints of a colour that could probably best be described as turquoise, sprinkled all over the walls and ceiling. Anderson looked around in astonishment, but one of the boys – Thiago, if she wasn't mistaken – tugged her sleeve, urging her to follow them onwards. Through a curtain of heavy cloth, they stepped into... well, the bath, for lack of a better word.

Andrin activated the lights, which danced across the ceiling in waves of blue and green, and Anderson regarded the luxury before her in amazement. It wasn't exactly a pool, but it was a lot more than a tub. At the moment it was empty, of course, but when it was full, the water would probably reach up to her shoulders if she sat down on one of the benches along its circumference. There was room enough for ten, in Anderson's estimation. Decorative plants surrounded the basin, creepers with heart-shaped leaves climbing up the white pillars, small palm trees in pots arranged around it. Above the basin's middle, a glittering ball covered in mosaic pieces of mirror glass hung from the ceiling, reflecting the light as it turned gently.

"I should have brought my swimming gear," Anderson sighed.

"I'm pretty sure you can get that here," Andrin pointed out. "After all, they gave us pyjamas."

"Anderson!" Dredd's voice sounded from the entrance hall. "We're leaving in ten! Gear up! And get the cadets dressed!"

The twins exchanged a quick glance, then looked at Anderson simultaneously. "We're going too?" they asked as one, their rising excitement practically sparking around them.

Anderson shrugged. "It would seem that way." She had expected to be alone with Dredd on this mission, whatever it was going to be, and part of her wasn't too pleased about him deciding to take the boys along all of a sudden. But then again, it made her more curious, too. Why would he want the Tobler brothers to come? Until now it had rather seemed to her that he had no intention of participating in their education. Was it Gradgrind's death that had changed his mind, or was it something else? "Full uniform," she told them. "Hurry up."

* * *

While Spikes was to accompany Patton back to the Landraider to replace the broken pump – due to the arson incident he did not have permission to leave the suite on his own, and according to Dredd this was probably for the best –, the rest of them was herded into a hoverpod painted blue with slashes of gold. Settling down into wide, cushioned seats arranged in a circle, separated from the cockpit by a transparent wall, they fastened their seatbelts. Anderson somehow managed to tie a knot in hers because she was so busy trying to admire the stunning landscape of domes and towers and decorated spires of pearly white outside the windows. What she had not realised was how much green dotted the roofs and was woven in between the structures, an abundance of gardens like she had never seen before. In Mega-City One there were few gardens in comparison. Of course, many of the more expensive blocks housed block parks, but she had seen very few blocks from the inside until now, and she had never yet been to one of the spectacular botanical display houses. But these gardens were out there, under the sky, just the way they had been in the old world. The way it should be.

As the pod lifted off, Dredd cleared his throat. "What do you lot know about the Great Atomic War?" Unlike her and the boys, he was wearing his helmet, so Anderson could only tell he was looking at the twins by the turn of his head.

The boys exchanged a glance, as they did so often. _Go on_, Anderson detected Andrin clearly saying. And promptly Thiago started speaking. "The Great Atomic War, or the Third World War, took place in 2070 and wiped out half of the world's population."

"Fifty-eight point six percent of the world have been considered uninhabitable since then," Andrin added.

Dredd nodded curtly. "Sounds about right. Did they teach you who started it?"

"That long-nosed prick started it," Andrin replied immediately, and Thiago clarified, "Bad Bob Booth."

"And what happened to him?" Dredd asked.

"He wasn't apprehended until three years later," Thiago answered. "When our forces stormed the White House to arrest him, he fled to Texas City, where he still had a lot of supporters. We had to win the Germ War first."

"They decided death was too good for him," Andrin continued. A certain heat had entered his voice. "So they chained him up and threw him into the deepest dungeon, where he was to lie frozen forever, neither dead nor alive, to remind people what happens to filthy scum like him."

"You might cut back on the drama a bit," Dredd remarked dryly, "but close enough. The Judgement of Solomon, they called it. He was Chief Judge then. You know that the law doesn't allow us to dispense judgement in cases that concern ourselves. Solomon argued that Booth's case concerned us all, so he sentenced Booth to a hundred years of suspended animation, to let coming generations decide his fate, from the distance history would give them."

Thoughtfully Anderson ran her gloved fingers over the helmet on her knees. She had been born a few years after the war was over, in the same year the skirmishes with Texas City imprecisely called the Germ War had taken place. She did not remember any of this. She dimly recalled the tyrant Cal, several years later; he had been overthrown and killed during her time at the orphanage, and Solomon had been reinstated. Him she remembered clearly, a slender white-haired man with a narrow, wrinkled face. But Booth and the wars had been before her time. Dredd probably did, though. "Do you remember Booth, sir?" she asked.

"Only too well," he promptly confirmed, "though I never met him in person. The year of the Great War was the first time I was sent to the street."

Anderson hastily calculated in her head. Mathematics had never been her strongest subject, but this was easy enough. That meant he was a little older than she had estimated him to be. "Were you a rookie, then?"

"No," he replied, "a cadet. I was four years old – or around ten, if you account for accelerated growth during my sixteen months in the tank."

Again she did a quick calculation. "That makes you twenty-eight," she voiced the result out loud in surprise. Quite a bit younger than she had thought he was. He only had seven years on her.

"Plus accelerated growth," he reminded her. "Not that it makes much difference anymore."

"It makes telling somebody your age weird," Thiago agreed, grinning. "Technically we'll be ten next week."

"We'll have to celebrate," Anderson suggested. Her own birthday had not been celebrated in a long, long time. "Maybe we can get cake somewhere." She dimly remembered cake, a small round one with colourful icing and a little candle on top, but she could not recall the taste. It must have been her fifth birthday, the last she had spent with her parents. She doubted she had eaten cake since then.

"So," Dredd said, returning to the previous topic and thereby wiping the hopeful smile off the boys' faces, "if you were to sentence Booth, what would you give him? Andrin?"

"Death," the boy answered promptly.

"Thiago?"

"I agree, sir."

Dredd nodded, leaning back in his seat, and said nothing at first, leaving Anderson to wonder why he had brought the subject up at all. Maybe he had wanted to distract himself; her awareness of him felt tense. Then he said, "What would Fargo have done, do you think?"

"Killed the creep," Thiago replied without thinking.

"If Fargo had still been alive back then," Andrin said with conviction, "there'd never have _been_ a war. Fargo would have stopped it. He wouldn't have let some power-crazed redneck nut destroy the world."

"He'd have killed him before that," Thiago agreed.

One of the corners of Dredd's mouth twitched in what Anderson had come to recognise as a small smile. "So that's what they taught you? That Fargo was superhuman? That he could have saved the world single-handedly?"

Thiago visibly hesitated, but Andrin ploughed ahead. "He _could_ have. He was the greatest man who ever lived."

"He was a hero," Thiago added. "Without any flaws. The best Judge ever. One day, we want to be like him."

"We _will_ be," Andrin promised solemnly.

Anderson felt it before she saw and heard his reaction, an upsurge inside him, a dark clouding of her awareness of him. "You're missing the most important point," he growled, catching the twins by surprise. "You're repeating every stupid word they put in your heads, and none of you notice that you know better, that you _must_ know better! God fucking damn it, look at yourselves! _You_ are Fargo! _I_ am! And so is my brother, and he's doing time on Titan! We're practically the same person, the lot of us! They fill your heads with so much entitlement, you'll think you can do anything, and get away with anything! I know how that ends, I've seen it, I've fucking been through it! And if you don't drop the attitude, we'll have history repeating itself, and guess what? Those bastards are only waiting for it! For all they care, one of you is expendable, and they're counting on losing him!"

Stunned, the twins stared at him in bewilderment and alarm. Anderson saw Andrin reach out and grasp Thiago's hand firmly. _Nobody's touching my little brother_, she heard him reassure him as clearly as if he had spoken aloud. But for once her attention wasn't on the exchange that should have interested her. She was focusing on Dredd instead. With his head lowered somewhat and his lips compressed, Anderson did not need her awareness of him – anger, pain, a lasting sense of loss and a touch of shame – to tell her that he already regretted the outburst. This was about his brother, she knew that it was, and it clearly was an extremely touchy subject to produce such a reaction. This was assigning blame for whatever it was that had happened to his brother. And she could feel that he blamed himself too, not least of all.

There he was, telling the boys Fargo had not been perfect, and at the same time he expected nothing less than perfection from himself. Part of her wanted to unbuckle her seatbelt, take the one step over to his seat and hug him tightly, but she wasn't sure he would take too well to that, especially in front of the twins. From where she sat, she could have touched his hand, but he most likely wouldn't want that either. Maybe he would allow her to get close when they were alone once more, but right now there was little comfort she could have offered him.

"My point is," he began again after a while of uncomfortable silence, "Fargo was a great man, but he was human. He had flaws, and he acted on them. And so can you."

The boys nodded soberly. "But he... he died a hero, right?" Thiago asked quietly. "There was nothing wrong with that, was there?"

Dredd sighed, and Anderson detected a sense of turmoil from him. "_Everything_ was wrong with that," he said at last. "Listen, what I'm about to tell you is known only to a precious few. Under no circumstances can you tell anyone. Do you understand?"

The twins nodded emphatically, and so did Anderson when he turned to look at her.

"Good. Because as his sons, you deserve to know. They told you Fargo died in a drive-by shooting in 2051. They probably showed you the surveillance footage. But that's a lie. I don't know the whole truth myself, it's been so hushed up. But what I could piece together from what I know is, there was a woman. She was of high rank, maybe a Judge herself, I don't know, maybe some other high-ranking government official – this was still the old system after all, under President Pierce. They had an affair, and eventually they were caught. It could be kept quiet, luckily, but Fargo... He had imposed the entire system himself, including the code of celibacy we live by, and he was the very image of integrity. I guess he could not live with himself. So he handed in his resignation to President Pierce and shot himself." Dredd passed a hand over the uncovered part of his face. "They couldn't let this story come out, could they now?"

"No way," Thiago said. "Bad publicity."

It was something else that bothered Anderson. "So he committed suicide because he had made a mistake?" That horribly sounded like something Dredd might do. She hoped he wouldn't make mistakes any time soon. Or ever. Maybe she shouldn't try to snuggle up to him anymore, if this might be the result.

"Fargo expected even higher standards of himself than of his Judges." To Dredd, this apparently was all the explanation necessary. "It could have ended there, but they wouldn't let him die. The best medics spent hours and hours trying to save him, and after two or three days they had him stable. A week later he woke up. From then on he got better, though I think he was restricted to a wheelchair most of the time."

Anderson barely saw the magnificent dome glittering with patterns of blue and gold they were swooping past. "So you're saying he didn't die at all. Was he there during the war?"

"He was. The magnificent tomb they built for him in the Hall of Heroes was empty when Pierce held the eulogy. The public had been told he had died a hero's death, so his existence was kept secret, but he sat on the Council, and Chief Judge Solomon always turned to him for his opinion throughout the years of change that came after. He counselled Solomon when the mega-cities got their self-governance. He witnessed the beginning of the cloning program, the first prototype in '63, then, after many failed attempts, the first generation – my own – in '66. He lived long enough to see the end of the world."

It was something that had never really occurred to Anderson: What horror must it have been to the people living back then, to the generation of her parents, to witness the world they had known being destroyed? Why had she never considered what it had been like for them? She felt thoughtless and ashamed, and she pitied the great Chief Judge Fargo as much as she pitied her parents.

"He wished he hadn't," Dredd continued, confirming her suspicions. "At the outbreak of war, there was one last meeting between the Chief Judges of the three mega-cities. There was little warning, Booth had the army behind him, and they struck the first blow without provocation. All the Chief Judges could do was return to their cities. But the others never made it home, they died in the counter strike. I heard Fargo say they were the lucky ones."

"You met him?" Andrin exclaimed, right on top of Thiago incredulously asking, "You saw Fargo?"

"He asked to see his clones, then. His sons, as he said. We were roused from our beds, Rico and I, and brought to him. I think it meant some consolation to him to see us. We sat at his feet, and he cried, and told us we had to be brave for him, when he could not. We didn't quite understand what was going on, but we promised. Children of the Apocalypse, he called us. Then they took him away, and we were sent out to the streets." Dredd sighed softly, and again Anderson felt the urge to get up and comfort him, but she kept quiet. This was not her moment; she was but a listener. This moment belonged to him and the twins, his little brothers. She was lucky to be allowed to intrude. "We saw him once again, a little later, before the White House was stormed. It was him who drafted Solomon's speech calling for Booth's resignation, and it was him who suggested basing it upon the Declaration of Independence. That it was the right and the duty of the people to throw off any kind of government that was destructive to the Declaration's ends – life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, all those old ideals. It pained him that his last deed was to be killing what remained of the world, those were his words. I still think he made the right call, the only choice he could have made, in everybody's interest. Anyway... you know what happened then. Well, most of it. You don't know that Fargo offered Booth negotiations first, and that Booth tried to have him captured when he learned he was still alive. We brought him to safety, Rico and I. You know the rest of the story."

"What happened to Fargo afterwards?" Andrin asked.

"He remains alive to this day... if you want to call it alive. After what happened, his health rapidly deteriorated. He had strained himself too much, his injuries had been too crippling... and somehow I think he lost the will to live. He grew confused, so they said. Finally they put him into artificial sleep, froze him in a vault deep beneath the Hall of Justice, to heal him once we invent the technology for it." Dredd rested his helmeted forehead in his hand. "Somehow I don't think this is what he wanted. But in the end he was just a prisoner of the new world he had created." There was a moment of hesitation, and Anderson felt his presence grasp around in smoke before the steel walls came slamming down. "He gave everything for the city. He kept nothing to himself. Remember that, and do him proud. You, too, belong to the city."

The twins sat up very straight. "Yes, sir!" they chorused. Had they noticed the change in Dredd at all, just now? There was something he had not said, something he had refused himself to utter, Anderson was certain of it. _Damn_, it was hard not to look into his mind! But she had made a promise to herself.

The hoverpod slowed, and Anderson saw that they were setting down on a landing platform outside another high tower, a slender spire decorated in spikes and burls rising from every corner to stretch up towards the sky. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Dredd rose from his seat. Anderson could sense his resolve; he felt tense as a knot.

He still hadn't told them where they were going.

The twins were excited all the same, but all she felt was apprehension. What was it that had Dredd so... nervous? What had made him snarl at the twins just now, and then reveal what must possibly be one of the Hall of Justice's best kept secret? What was it that he had to do?

* * *

The boys were practically skipping along like a pair of overexcited puppies. Had he and Rico ever looked this silly, Dredd wondered. He feared they had. Especially when they had been allowed to walk alongside Fargo, that night they had stormed the White House and deposed the last president. It must have been the proudest moment of his life.

They were led through another white corridor decorated with colourful lights, this time in a rather unfortunate combination of yellow and violet, then took an elevator downwards. After what felt like an endless journey they got out once more, probably fairly deep underground. This time the corridors they passed through were steel grey and lacked decoration of any kind. Except their footsteps resounding dully, there was no sound, not even the gentle drone of air circulation machinery. The air felt dry and stuffy.

Before a massive bunker door, Colonel Westphal and a retinue of other uniformed dignitaries awaited them. It made sense that they would be there.

One could trust Westphal to keep the formalities short; Dredd appreciated this about her. After a few words of greetings and of informing him that the prisoner was ready, an aide activated the door controls, and they entered a brightly lit, but otherwise undecorated room. There were seats arranged in three rows, with one solitary chair facing them, massive old-fashioned manacles on the armrests, a grotesque anachronism in the otherwise smooth and sterile surroundings. The room's purpose was self-explanatory.

"Welcome to Dunesea Penitentiary," said the short, white-haired man Dredd recognised as Alan Wilkins, mayor of Dunesea. Back in the old days, he had been a high-ranking judge, apparently, one of the old kind of judges, robed and sitting in courts. Considering that the new system introduced by Fargo and his supporters had been put into effect more than sixty years ago, even if only for a limited number of criminal offences at first, it was safe to estimate that the man was around a hundred years old. From the way he looked and moved, Dredd would have barely given him sixty, despite the snowy white hair. Clearly Dunesea possessed the same technology of expanding lives that Mega-City One had – for those rich enough to be able to afford it.

Westphal gestured towards the seats, but Dredd shook his head. "I'd prefer to remain standing, if you don't mind." He had never sentenced anyone while sitting down.

"Of course. Suit yourself." Westphal ushered Anderson and the twins into the second row, with Dredd's nod of consent. Surprisingly the girl was wearing her helmet for once. Then she, Wilkins and the handful of other officials took their seats as well, some of them back in the last row.

"Ready?" the colonel asked, and when Dredd nodded curtly, she commanded, "Bring him in."

The man who was escorted in by a pair of guards in black uniforms was tall, though the guards dwarfed him, and had sandy-brown hair neatly parted at the middle, with heavy streaks of grey at the sides. If his skin tone was paler than on the pictures, the sharp nose and arrogant tilt of his cleft chin would have been enough to identify him, though Dredd had never seen him in person before. His white clothing might be hospital garb as well as prison uniform, either way it was a lot different from the expensive suits one had seen him wear previously.

He is a perp like any other, Dredd told himself. A mass murderer, perhaps, but a perp like any other. All the same, it was hard to forget that he was about to pass sentence on the last president of the United States.

Though his gait was a little unsteady – the result of twenty years in cryostasis? – the prisoner fixed Dredd with a piercing glare out of bright blue eyes. When one of the guards nudged him towards the chair facing the room, he refused to be seated. The bulky man seemed about to use force, but Dredd waved him away. It did not matter.

They stood facing each other wordlessly for a moment, then the former president broke the silence. "The uniform has changed," he remarked, his voice as full and deep and pleasant as Dredd remembered it from recordings, "the arrogance has not. Tell me, how come you're higher than me all of a sudden? Are you lot still running your dictatorship? Have you found a legal justification yet?"

But Dredd had expected the provocation and had an answer ready. "Robert Linus Booth, due to irresolvable technical difficulties with your life support system, your suspended animation was revoked by the Council of Mega-City One with immediate effect, and your trial rescheduled to take place before the appointed time. You stand accused of murder in millions of counts and several other crimes, the least of it being rigging the vote counters in the '68 election, thereby effectively cheating yourself into presidency. Do you have anything to say on your behalf?"

Booth sneered. "Instant justice for me, is it now? Not to get technical here, but the law demands that I be sentenced under those laws applicable at the time of the crime, and that sure as hell wasn't your instant justice procedure. But since no such lawful court exists anymore, I'm afraid you'll have to let me go free. Furthermore, freezing me and shoving me into a cellar certainly interfered with my constitutional rights."

"Any act of positive law constitutes nothing other than the given fact, which is intended to serve the idea of law," Dredd quoted. As it turned out, paying attention in Legal Theory class had not been for nothing after all. "Where a statute fails to serve justice in letting a grievous injury to its very core stand as lawful, it is not only in error, but not of legal nature at all. Don't expect to escape a murder charge of this scale on technicalities." Using this theory here was a generous stretch, most likely, but it would have to do.

This time the former president appeared taken aback, but he recovered quickly enough. "Not quite a mindless robot, then? How about you take off that silly helmet and face me like a man?"

So now they had arrived at this level? Good. That made it easier. "The law does not have a face," Dredd said calmly. "It has no need of one. Is there anything else you want to say for yourself?"

"Yes, screw you, you self-righteous bastard!" The former president's voice wasn't pleasant any longer. A little colour had returned to his drawn, pale face, undoubtedly due to anger. "Do you have any idea what it means, waking up outside of your time, only to wait to be killed? Can you even imagine what it feels like? And it's not sleep you gave me, it's a stupor from which I can't rouse myself! I dream, did you know that? Or maybe it's real, I can't tell any longer! You're slowly driving me mad, that's what you're doing!"

Dredd could have laughed out loud. All at once this was so much easier than he had expected! Not a larger-than-life villain, just a criminal not much different from all the others he had judged until now. If this made him detest the man more or less, he could not say.

And then the answer he had been looking for was right there, so clear, so very easy. "Your objections have been noted. Robert Linus Booth, you were sentenced to a hundred years spent in a state between life and death, but then the machines failed. Following Chief Judge Solomon's sentence, and in accordance with Chief Judge Goodman's opinion, I should order the execution of this sentence to be resumed, as soon as the necessary repairs could be made. But given the current circumstances at Mega-City One, and hearing your appeal, I'm changing your sentence to life." Booth's pale eyes widened, and it seemed he was about to say something, but Dredd gave him no chance to speak. "I sentence you to a lifetime of hard labour, without parole. You will leave Dunesea with the first terraforming crew departing, and you will work under their orders and supervision. You will never enter a city again unless it is deemed absolutely necessary, but spend the remainder of your life in the Cursed Earth. What you did to the world can never be undone, but you're gonna spend the rest of your time trying, and trying hard." Dredd gestured to the guards. "Take him away."

The two bulky men briskly marched the protesting and cursing politician out through the door by which they had entered. As it clanged shut, silence filled the room.

Dredd heaved a quiet sigh of relief. Goodman might have his hide for this later on, and McGruder might set the entire SJS on him, the Dunesea officials might kick up a fuss as well, but he felt like a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. _Put a bullet through his vile head_, Goodman had suggested, and when Dredd had pointed out that it hardly was passing judgement if he knew his own decision beforehand, she had conceded, _Then take putting him back to sleep as your alternative option, if you must. Just get rid of him. This is a bad time for it. _How would she react to his choice? Still, even risking the Chief Judge's anger, he felt good. He felt he had done the right thing.

He only noticed that Mayor Wilkins had approached him from behind when the old man was already standing next to him. "I knew Eustace Fargo well, Judge Dredd," he said quietly. "I just felt he's come back to life once more."

* * *

By the time they were brought back to their quarters, Patton and Spikes had not returned yet. While Dredd spent some time in the sitting room with the white-haired mayor and Colonel Westphal, Anderson and the twins could not resist the bath's temptation. Moreover, there was a small selection of cake in the dining room, so soon the three of them were sitting on the edge of the basin in their standard-issue black underwear, for lack of proper swim wear, dangling their feet into it while waiting for it to fill up with warm water and trying various pieces of cake the twins had brought over in the meantime. There was an air jet in the centre of the basin that could be turned on, creating a bubbling eruption that kept them amused for quite a while. Then the twins discovered that there was a music player, and that the lights would dance in sync with it once it was turned on. They had fun browsing through the music library and observing how the lights changed according to the rhythm of the music.

By the time Dredd finally turned up, still in his uniform, though without the protective gear, they had already gone through the obligatory wrestling and splashing each other and were reclining on the benches comfortably. "Thanks for rubbing it in, with all that noise," he announced to the room at large, looking in through the curtain at the entrance, "how you're having a good time while I'm representing the city."

Was he angry, or was he joking? Anderson could not quite say, and her awareness of him suggested a mixture of both, unless she was mistaken. "You could have a good time _now_," she pointed out.

"Are you having cake in here?" Unzipping his jacket, he entered the room, his boots leaving slightly grey footprints on the wet tiled floor. "Caramel cheesecake!" With this unexpected battle cry, he snatched up Anderson's plate and wolfed down what remained of her afternoon snack in just a few bites, then finished half a filled cinnamon and apple donut the twins had saved for later. Andrin hastily climbed out of the basin to move the cupcakes out of his elder clone brother's reach.

"Wow," Anderson managed. "You sure are hungry."

Dredd bit a large chunk out of a white chocolate brownie. "Yeah," he simply confirmed with his mouth full. The twins decided that it was the wisest choice to finish their cupcakes themselves.

"There's more at the dining room," Anderson told him, in case he suspected them of not only enjoying themselves while he was working, but also eating up most of the cake without him.

"I know." Wiping the crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand, he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on one of the potted palm trees. "Can't be bothered to walk so far." He was actually wearing a small smile as he said it, though his face soon disappeared as he pulled off his T-shirt and struggled with it for a bit before it too ended up decorating a plant. "Get the bubbles running."

As he kicked off his boots, Anderson could no longer stop herself. Reaching out with her mind, she brushed her sense of him carefully, just the edge. The walls were still there, but made of opaque dark glass, and there was something... moving behind it, glimpses of light behind a translucent pane. Though Anderson could not say for certain, it seemed to her that he was very much relieved the whole affair with Booth was over, and the pressure lifted from his shoulders made him feel what could probably best be described as cheerful. Part of her had not thought Dredd capable of such an emotion.

By the time he had finished undressing, Thiago had climbed out and started up the air jet again, and the music, for good measure. They jumped into the water at the same time with a great splash, and Dredd promptly submerged the younger clone under the frothing water. Spluttering, Thiago launched himself at him, and it wasn't long before Andrin joined in.

Dredd acting out of character. One ought to film that, Anderson thought, grinning to herself. Seeing him play-wrestle the twins like that, it suddenly seemed very obvious that they were the same person, only at different ages. Was this part of what caused him to loosen up like that?

After a few minutes Dredd told the twins firmly that it was enough, though, and came to join Anderson on the side bench while the twins continued the water-fight struggling in the bubbling jet. "You have the day off tomorrow," he told her, brushing his wet hair out of his forehead. "Any plans?"

Anderson shrugged. "I'm not sure. I haven't really thought about it yet. Are you doing anything?" Calling him "sir" seemed absurd when both were sitting in a luxurious private bath in their underwear.

"Some official stuff, probably." He clearly wasn't particularly looking forward to that. "You have a good time, OK?" With only centimetres between their shoulders, Anderson thought she felt the echo of what he wasn't saying: _Thank you for coming along this morning._

"I can't just have a good time while you're not," Anderson protested.

"Says the one who was eating cake in the pool the whole time," Dredd commented dryly, but his presence wasn't feeling angry, and when Anderson looked at him sideways, he was wearing his small smile again. Serious once more, he added, "This is my part of the mission, not yours. You've got things of your own to do."

Moments ago nothing but glad about how he seemed to have relaxed around her and the Tobler boys, Anderson got the all too familiar feeling of a fist clenching inside her stomach that had plagued her so often before important exams. "Yeah... about that..." A glance at the twins told her they weren't listening, they were busy diving through the bubble jet, or at least attempting to. All the same she lowered her voice. "I... I think I'll have to read you for comparison," she rushed out. Her voice sounded girlishly squeaky to her own ears.

At first he didn't answer, and before her inner eye she could see shrouds of mist temporarily swathe his mind in uneasy spirals. "Fine," he finally said, his voice as gruff as it had been when she had first met him. "Tomorrow."

* * *

_Lines of legal theory adapted from the philosophy of Gustav Radbruch._


	14. What lies hidden

_**If you haven't bought your DVD or BluRay yet, now is the time! DNA Films are currently reviewing the sales, apparently, to decide whether or not they'll risk a sequel. And if you've got your own copy already, I'm sure you have plenty of friends who have birthdays etc... :-)**_

_Thank you to those who took the time to review. I really appreciate it, no matter if it's a lengthy treatise or just one sentence._  
_And I apologise this took so long once again. I've been spending a lot of time in the studio with the band lately._

_For those among you who speak Russian:__ Vatori-Almasy from this site is currently working on a Russian translation of this story. You'll find a link to it in my profile. My own knowledge of Russian is very limited, so I can't give her much feedback, but I'm sure she'd be happy if some of you had a look._

* * *

**14. What Lies Hidden**

This time it was Anderson who woke first. She couldn't see Dredd – he was hidden behind his bed curtains – but she could sense him, his mind stirring in an uneasy sleep. It made her think of what she would have to do today. Pulling the blanket up to her chin, she tried to fall asleep once more. For a while she dozed, but she could not find rest for long anymore. Finally she got up quietly and padded across the soft carpet, into the bathroom. The shower did little to soothe her nerves, though.

She tried to be rational. What exactly was it that scared her? She had peeked into Dredd's mind before on occasion. Not that deeply, of course, but she had. Nothing she had encountered in there had ever given her reason to be afraid.

No, this was about what she had seen inside Thiago's mind, she admitted to herself, turning the water on stronger. She was afraid she would find the same in Dredd's mind. And the fact that she would eventually have to report on it made her teeth as well as her stomach clench. Betrayal, that was what it felt like.

She had covered herself in scented soap bubbles from head to toe already and scrubbed them off again, but she did it once more. As was to be expected, it didn't make her feel any better, neither the pleasant scent nor the water raining down on her.

Her very first private mission, and already she hated it.

"You drowning yourself in there or what?" Dredd's voice came from outside.

Anderson rolled her eyes and turned off the water. She wouldn't get any cleaner than she already was, anyway.

Breakfast was just as delicious as it had been the day before, but Anderson could not enjoy it as much as she would have liked to. She tried to concentrate on Patton enumerating the different kinds of ammunition he had purchased the day before, yet it was of little use; the knot in her stomach would still not come undone.

"Anything wrong?" Dredd asked her quietly. With all the noise the twins were making, the others weren't listening to what they were saying. "You're not eating."

"Fine," Anderson assured him, reaching for a slice of bread and almost pushing over her mug of hot chocolate.

Dredd raised his eyebrows at her. "Yeah, right."

Anderson feared she was blushing. "Nervous about reading you," she admitted, after a quick glance at the twins that confirmed that their full attention was on Spikes trying to eat a croissant sideways.

"Why, what could go wrong?" He didn't sound alarmed, but she thought she detected a note of it in her sense of him.

"Nothing," she replied hastily. "Nothing." It probably sounded unconvincing.

The corners of his mouth twitched downwards in a hint of his scowl of determination she knew so well by now. "Then let's get this over with as soon as possible."

After breakfast the others headed out to enjoy the sights Dunesea had to offer, while Dredd and Anderson stayed behind. "We'll join you later," Dredd told them. "There are a few things we have to discuss."

_Discuss. So that's what he calls it_, Anderson could clearly make out Andrin tell Thiago, snickering audibly. Whatever made him think she could not hear him across the entrance hall?

_Bet he'd like to do it in the bath_, Thiago replied, grinning hugely. _She does look good in wet underwear._

_I'd rather do it in the sitting room_, Andrin suggested, _on the big sofa. And she sure looks even better without underwear._

Fed up, Anderson planted a sudden stinging sensation in both their minds simultaneously. The way they jumped and held their backsides was very amusing, and how they blushed when they realised what must have happened made it even funnier. Yet when they left, the knot in her stomach clenched once again.

Dredd led the way into the sitting room and let himself slump down onto the large blue sofa. Anderson was rather glad he had no idea what use his younger clone brother had only just suggested for this particular piece of furniture. Sitting down beside him, she felt stiff and uncomfortable.

"So," Dredd began after a moment of awkward silence. "How does this work? Do we stare at each other and hold hands or something?"

"No," Anderson snapped, mildly annoyed at not being taken seriously, but then it occurred to her that he did have a point. "But you might give me your hand."

With a sigh, Dredd held out his hand as if this were an ordeal he had to suffer through, and Anderson grabbed it a bit more forcefully than necessary. Did he _have_ to make this harder than it already was? But when she touched his skin and clearly sensed what he was feeling, she understood and felt a little guilty about her anger. He liked her, he really did, but this unsettled and scared him. He felt stripped naked and tied down to an operating table, despite his attempts at convincing himself he was overreacting. He trusted her, and yet he felt she was about to dissect him.

"I'll try and keep out of your more private areas," she promised. The next moment she was glad the twins weren't there to hear that awkward sentence. "I won't ever tell anyone what I see." Wrong, she might have to mention it in a report. She loathed that report, even before she had started working on it. But there was no way around it, he had his duty, and so did she. Settling down close beside him, with her shoulder touching his, she took his hand in both of hers and closed her eyes.

The wall was there, strong as ever, but as she pushed against it, she melted through. It had never been built to keep anyone out, only in. Uncertainty flickered around her, resentment trickled around her feet as lazily as oil. Thoughts blinked through the haze of his attempt to push them down. He didn't doubt her, precisely, he was ready to believe this was necessary, but he wished she could have done without this. He feared she would see things he did not want her to see. Thoughts of sex, Anderson suspected. Everybody had them, and not too rarely. It had effectively kept her out of the minds of her fellow cadets most of the time; she really had not wanted to be an unwilling witness to their sexual fantasies. It had made her act awkward around them, especially if she herself had figured in them, which had happened on occasion.

Pushing forward through the foggy landscape of his thoughts, she located the centre of his consciousness straight away. Morris had been right, the more one did this, the easier it became. Inside it, he was looking back at her, in full uniform and with a tall shadow behind him. At first she thought it was his brother Rico, but then she realised that it could be only one man. Fargo's son, the only Fargo clone in active service. It was a great honour to be who he was, but she had not realised until now how heavy a burden it was at the same time.

In their tunnel leading downwards – if one could call it thus; there were no directions here – his memories glistened and glinted, beckoning her, but she resisted the temptation. After all, she had come to regard him as her friend, and she owed him a lot. She would not invade his privacy more than she had to. Above her his thoughts and feelings swirled and danced, a colourful dome like the sky above the Cursed Earth at sunset. He thought he could feel her, she realised, a faint tingle he could not place. Could he really, or was he imagining it? She had no idea.

After she had managed to find Thiago's subconscious, she at least knew where to look, but she still had to feel around for a little while before she located the entrance to the dark cave. Here she hesitated. This time she knew what she might have to expect, so it wouldn't be that bad, or would it? But the idea of seeing Dredd's darker self still frightened her.

It was then that she noticed that there was something else beneath it, hidden behind a papery membrane. Cautiously she slipped through, briefly struggling past what felt like sticky threads –

She was floating in warm, gentle darkness, and before her a cord of liquid light pulsed in the rhythm of a human heart. It was streaming within him, through him, and as she reached out to it, she thought to feel its echo inside herself. What was it? Morris had not mentioned this. A mental representation of life? A form of energy that powered the human body? Was this what a soul looked like? Tentatively she grasped it –

Somewhere far away, Dredd shuddered and sucked in his breath sharply. Immediately Anderson let go. Had she hurt him? _It's alright_, she whispered to him, _I won't harm you. _High above, somewhere beyond the darkness, the swirling, crackling colours slowed, but she could still sense his unease like bubbles against her skin.

She _could_ hurt him if she wanted to. Maybe she could even kill him. The realisation made her feel cold, even cradled in the strangely soothing presence of his innermost mind. Suddenly she wished Morris were here. If only he had come with them! This way, she was on her own and had to find out for herself. And right now she felt more than a little lost.

Once more, just once more. Careful now, very careful… _Don't be afraid_, she murmured to his thoughts, the stormy surface above her. The cord of light felt warm, and so joyful and peaceful at the same time. _It's fine. I'd never harm you._ Grasping the flowing light, she squeezed it.

Dredd convulsed beside her; her awareness of her own body was dim right now, but she felt it clearly enough. A flash of blinding red went through his entire mind, startling her enough to pull out.

The air felt oddly cool at first, the light coming in through the glass front brighter than before. Dredd's hand was clenched around hers, she noticed, and only slowly relaxing its grip. His head thrown back against the plump, gold-tasselled cushion decorating the back of the sofa, his eyes half closed, he was breathing hard.

Had she harmed him? She could not really detect anything clear from him. "Are you OK?" Anderson asked tentatively.

"I'll be fine," he muttered, and relief flooded her. "What the fucking hell was that?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "But I think I've found a way to kill someone with my mind."

"Good," he grumbled, sitting up slowly. "Don't try it on me again."

"I won't. I'm sorry."

"Forget it," he said gruffly. "Now get back to work."

Closing her eyes again, she slipped back into his mind. His unease had abated a little, for some inexplicable reason; she would have expected it to be stronger than before. Diving through the outlying regions, she headed straight for his subconscious, staying well away from what lay further beneath it. Whatever happened, it could hardly be worse for him than what she had done just now.

Carefully, very carefully she reached into the mouth of the hidden dark cave, prepared for a shock –

The sudden onrush of flashes of purple and red raging around her still made her grit her teeth. Was this more intense than it had been with Thiago, or had she simply underestimated it? From the storm of fury a shape formed, hard to make out in the flashes and shadows, rose to enormous height and came towards her, the colours parting and recoiling before it, hissing fog at its feet. The wolf-man. It must be. Wisps of red fog flew up before it like showers of sparks, casting unsteady glimmers across its snarling features.

It took Anderson a moment to realise that this wasn't quite the feral creature she had found hidden in Thiago's head. Feral, yes, but it was no creature. It was Dredd himself.

Stunned, Anderson watched her surroundings dim as he came to meet her. It wasn't quite him, not the Dredd she knew; his eyes were glowing with an otherworldly dark sheen, his teeth, bared in a twisted leer, looked somewhat sharper than a man's, his hair was definitely longer than the real Dredd's was, but apart from that it was him, even wearing part of his uniform. Could he sense her? Did his subconscious know she was there?

_Anderson_. His voice was a purr that caressed her mind with promises of pleasure and violence. _You're in my head, and you like it in there, eh?_

Taken aback at him actually addressing her, she was at a loss for words at first. _I... I..._ She was making a horrible mess of this. _Is this really you?_

He was circling her amid a field of hissing black and purple flames, watching her like a predator. Something about him was horribly off, and it wasn't just his appearance. _Who else would I be? _It was the feeling, a tense, pulsing sensation he exuded, an air of scarcely veiled... thirst. Whoever this man was, he was not her friend.

The idea struck her very suddenly. Was this perhaps... No, impossible! Or was it? Could it be... _Are you Rico?_, she asked.

As soon as she had uttered the name, red and purple flared up around him like a burning halo, mirrored in their surroundings. For a moment he changed, and she thought to see the wolf-like humanoid she had discovered in Thiago's head before he settled back into his human form. But what truly made her recoil were the emotions that spiked up along with the slashes of colour, rage, hatred and pain, so much pain. It felt as if he had been ripped apart, or as if something had been torn out of him, and it shot through Anderson with brutal intensity, making her distant body cringe. Then it died down again, and what remained was him, a human shape with glowing eyes clad in black leather that more or less resembled his uniform. _I'm Joe._

Clearly mentioning Rico had been a mistake. _Sorry I brought him up. _It had been one of the names she had been planning to test with his subconscious, like she had prompted Thiago's response to Andrin's name. But what did it matter? That he stood opposite her as a sentient entity, rather than a mindless monster, had destroyed all her plans already. The anger he radiated was like the prickle of bristles against her skin. _How come you're human?_

His features twisted into a wider sneer than any human face should be capable of. It wasn't quite his face, altogether; something of the creature seemed to have remained this time. _Are you?_ He had taken up pacing around her once again, eyeing her like a carnivore might size up his prey. Heat and cold alternated around him. Dots of bright red danced in the darkness like static.

Though she had inwardly braced herself for something like that, his scathing remark still hurt, and so did those inhuman eyes. Anderson wanted to flee, but she could not go just yet. If she did, it all would have been in vain. And she needed to make something of this, she owed it to him, even to that dark, twisted side of him. Forcing down her overwhelming reluctance, she reached out her feelers to him.

At once she was sucked into a spiralling maelstrom of sensations. After the experience with Thiago she had anticipated it, but once again it was stronger than she had expected. Shaken and flung about, it took her a little while to adjust. Shielding herself against the onrush of hate and wrath, resentment and lust, she tried to hold the images flashing past her, bracing herself against the blind violence and blood that streaked through it. Somewhere he – no, not him, the dark Dredd – was struggling against heavy chains that were holding him down, chains that nauseated him and burned his insides, and as he raised his head to snarl at her, she saw the bloody eagle branded across his face. Names roared past her, names she had never heard before, and blood flowed. The sun burned down on an empty desert landscape. The wind beat at him as he gazed out across the city from the top of a block. A woman writhing underneath him, and for a moment she thought it was Hershey, but her features were in constant transit. The roar of the Lawgiver in his hand. Bodies beneath his feet, fading out to a landscape of bones. Candy, lots of it. A bloodied knife. He and Rico rushing down a faceless white corridor, a pair of laughing children soon swallowed up in the darkness. Lying in the sun, enjoying its warmth, with not a care in the world. And then it came crashing back down upon his shoulders, and Fargo pressed his hand onto his head hard enough to force him into the ground. Storm clouds. A man was on his knees before him, and he shot him at point blank, blood and bones and brain matter spattering the street. Snarling, snarling at a faceless shape in uniform towering above him. One day, one day he was going to kill them all. Fire and ruins, thick smoke rising towards a leaden sky. Soaring, soaring ever higher, invincible. He was tearing off his own face, bloody shreds falling to the floor and shrivelling up to paper ribbons. Behind him the city crumbled, and a forest shot up in its place, creepers soon covering the ruins of the civilisation he had been born to protect, and briefly the strange concept of freedom filled his head, but then Fargo reached down from the clouds and handed him an axe, and he started chopping at the forest, chopping, chopping until his hands bled. Somewhere a child was weeping. Hungry, hungry for the light, for the glory. Someone was calling his name. Rico. The vortex of images intensified, and the emotions made no sense anymore. Everything at once, rushing in on her. Clinging to what must be the image of Rico, shortly before they had been parted, so very much the same as him, she dived through the currents, holding on for dear life –

She had no idea where she was. The wild suck had disappeared. Images were still circling and swirling around her, but more gently now, like those fabled butterflies. Rico was holding out his hand, and he took it and leapt up into the sky with him. Sun on his face, wind in his hair. His helmet lay discarded. The peace of a star-strewn sky. Sparkling in the sunlight, the city lay beneath them, ready to be conquered, and they were ready to fight the good fight, never leaving each other's side. Trees and grass and sun, and a small shelter by the side of a clear lake, somewhere far away. Rico was beckoning to him, and he stripped off his leathers and jumped into the water. Night fell, the stars came out, and they were all there, Rico, Hershey, others she did not recognise, even she herself, all huddled around a fire, sharing out dinner among them. He was kissing her amid the trees, but without that fierce intensity his mind had displayed before, but gently, drawing it out, taking his time. They had all the time in the world.

Yet even as she watched, the images faded and winked out, leaving darkness and a lingering sense of loss. This was a graveyard of dreams.

Anderson opened her eyes and blinked into the suddenly blinding light of day. How long had she been inside Dredd's mind? She could only guess. Her own limbs briefly felt unfamiliar. She swallowed, trying to force down all the fresh impressions crowding her thoughts. It probably was best if she sorted through them straight away, but she still felt too overwhelmed to regard them from a safe distance.

Had he really somehow managed to extend his control even to his subconscious? To harness his darker self?

Was this what he had meant when he had told her to make the darkness her own, that night after Gradgrind had died? It suddenly made sense in a wholly different way.

Did he have even the faintest idea what his mind was like?

And if she looked at Andrin, would he be the same, instead of having a roaring monster in his head? Or would his subconscious look more like Thiago's?

Dredd's hidden darker side had hardly felt less feral than the younger clone's, though. Should that thought calm her on Thiago's behalf, or rather unsettle her on Dredd's?

A ragged breath from him made her let go of his hand – she had not even noticed that she had still been holding it – and focus her attention on him very suddenly. His presence felt... raw, somehow. Angrily brushing a hand across his eyes, he looked shaken, though he did his best to force his features into his usual scowl, the mask he wore to go with his helmet. "Don't _ever_ do that again!" he growled, his voice somewhat throatier than usual.

"I'm sorry!" The words practically came out in a squeak, and she felt ashamed of herself. How much of this had he sensed, too? Had she hurt him? "I didn't mean to, whatever I did, I didn't –"

"Just don't do it again," he cut her off harshly. Abruptly getting back to his feet, he crossed the room, slid the door to the balcony open and went to lean against the rail, gazing out across the pearly white domes and towers of Dunesea.

Anderson bit her lower lip. What had she done? He had trusted her, and she had hurt him. She was a bad friend, no, a _horrible_ friend. The faint taste of blood made her let go, but she paid it no mind. Betrayal. It felt like the right term to use.

She had had her orders.

Yes, but those orders had not included him. She had been tasked to investigate the twins, to delve into their minds, to do whatever was necessary to find out what it was that had caused Rico's downfall.

There was no way she could have done this without having a look at Rico's twin, too. And to truly answer the question that seemed to interest the Chief Judge and plenty of other important people quite a lot, she would have to see Rico himself.

But what good would it do her? Had working on Dredd produced any results, apart from making sure he would never allow her anywhere near him again?

Curse this assignment! It was not right, forcing her way down into her friends' minds like that, not into Dredd's, and not into the boys'! None of the twins had done anything wrong, none of them deserved to be treated like a specimen on the dissection table! They were her friends, the lot of them, and she would not betray them like that! Curse this assignment, curse the Chief Judge, and curse the entire Hall of Justice!

Fuelled by her rising anger, she jumped up and rushed out after Dredd. "I'm not doing this anymore!" she proclaimed. "It's not right! I don't care if I've had orders or not, I can't just –"

He did not even bother to turn his head towards her. "Anderson," he interrupted, his voice gruff as ever, "new Judges always have big mouths on them, but in the end they do exactly as they're told. So will you."

"I won't!" she protested, taken aback, though she sounded half-hearted to her own ears.

"You will," he insisted. His walls were there once more, higher and blacker than ever. "You will, and you'll go far. There's a time for having your own head, but it's not now. Sometimes you'll curse it and you'll hate it, but you'll do what they tell you, because you're a Judge and this is your life. You don't get to choose for yourself."

Anderson wanted to argue further, but it was pointless. He was right, of course. She could hardly storm into Chief Judge Goodman's office and yell at her about Dredd's privacy. Leaning on the rail beside him, she breathed in deeply and did her best to calm herself. She would do what she had been ordered to do... but she would do it her own way!

* * *

Stretched out on his back with his fingers interlaced beneath the back of his head, Rico Dredd watched the warden get dressed again. Though she was a fairly attractive woman, the shaved head didn't exactly compliment her. Her hair was shorter than his own, even, now they hadn't forced him to undergo the fortnightly shave. It gave her an air of masculinity that didn't really fit with her generous curves.

"What are you looking at, sexy?" she asked with a grin.

"Why, _you_, of course." He didn't feel particularly sexy just yet, though he felt he had recovered a lot during those past few days spent resting and eating whatever the cantina offered. They still kept him confined, naturally, but he was a very pampered prisoner now, at least for Titan's standards. After fifteen years of hard labour, sleeping for more than five or six hours and spooning down canned food were marvellous luxuries. As was the sex, of course. One of the female wardens had thanked him in a very special way for saving her life, and the next day after her shift she had returned with a friend. This was the point when Rico had seriously questioned his sanity, but apparently he wasn't delusional; those two girls had felt real enough. And now this one had turned up all of a sudden. Julia Pasternak, unless he was mistaken. Pushed him up against a wall and started feeling him up straight away. An approach more direct than anything he had ever done himself. At first he had been rather reluctant, but it had not been so bad after all. Moreover, it probably was in his best interest not to reject their advances. He should be glad as long as only female wardens put him to that newly discovered use. "Not enough decent rides among your colleagues?"

She shrugged, zipping up her grey uniform trousers. "Some. None of them a Fargo clone."

Ah, so this was what this had been about. Sex with Fargo. It seemed to be a kick. "Another goal to tick off on your list, eh?"

Her grin widened. "I intend to tick it off more than once, lover. You're quite the stallion."

Well, technically he had spent a good part of the encounter on his back, but if she still wanted to call him that… "Whenever you feel like it." He had little choice in the matter, anyway. Not that he should be complaining. "So, am I getting a parole hearing any time soon?"

"Out of my hands, sweetie." She pulled on her jacket. "But from what I hear, it's been discussed."

Rico sighed inwardly. Nothing new, then. He would have to be patient. "Any word from home?"

"Riots continue, last I heard. Do you by any chance have a brother called Joseph?"

Oh, great. She had to bring up his brother. Rico feared he could not quite keep his face impassive. "I do. Why?"

"Epic badass, is he?"

"Not nearly as much as I am." Rico pulled the blanket up to his chest. If she wanted to discuss his brother, he wouldn't give her as much eye candy as she could have enjoyed otherwise.

Pasternak chuckled, a surprisingly high and girlish sound. "Of course you are, honey pie. Did you hear about him fighting his way out of a locked-down block and executing a whole drug cartel in the process? He made the news."

Being dismissed like that and called "honey pie" in the same sentence was harsh. "So I've been told." One of the wardens had actually slipped him a press printout, whether to do him a kindness or to torment him he wasn't sure. His brother, the hero. It made him grind his teeth in rage and frustration.

"So, which one of you is the elder?"

Couldn't she just drop the subject? "Me, by twelve minutes."

"Twins!" The warden's face lit up with delight. "And identical ones too, I bet, since you're a clone!" He would not have expected her grin to grow any broader, but apparently it was possible; by now she was baring two rows of smooth white teeth. "Wanna guess what I'm thinking right now? Would he do it?"

Rico suppressed a groan. "I don't even have to guess. And no, no way. Getting into Little Mister Perfect's pants is hopeless, threesome or not." If she would only stop speaking of his accursed brother!

There it was again, the anger, the rising flood. He could practically feel it lift him up and carry him towards the ceiling. When he shifted, the sensation faded, but slowly. He had escaped the hopelessness, the solitude, the bitterness that gnawed at him with blunt teeth, and yet madness still had a grasp on him. Was there no way of escaping Titan?

He had wanted the warden to leave, but when she finally left, he would have preferred her to stay with him, even if she discussed the subject of his perfect, self-righteous brother at great length. All of a sudden he was scared to be alone.

When he went to sleep at last, he left the light on.

* * *

Taking a tour around Dunesea helped lighten Anderson's mood. Actually she would have preferred to don civilian clothes and explore on her own, but the places Dunesea's officials had picked out for them were rather nice, too. A hoverpod brought them to the aquarium, where the others were already admiring a magnificent display of fish of all shapes and sizes. Even Dredd – who, much to Anderson's relief, had not insisted on protective gear and helmet this time; maybe he had realised just as how silly this would come across – seemed to like looking at the sharks and the stingrays. They got a brief tour of the dolphin research centre – dolphins, at the middle of the continent! – before they visited the Terraforming Museum, which was quite educational, and then the main botanical garden, which was spectacular. At first Anderson had feared Dredd might show little interest in the sights, but quite to the contrary, he gave them his full attention, despite the occasional flicker of impatience she sensed around him. Maybe this was because he wanted to avoid talking to her, she suspected, and the thought hurt a little. On the other hand, she could understand him, and she did not want to talk about it either, but she would have preferred it if he didn't just avoid her altogether.

After that, Dredd had another meeting with Mayor Wilkins and Colonel Westphal, and this time Anderson was glad he took Patton along and not her. She and the twins got to wear civilian garb and saunter around the city a little this way after all. At first she wasn't too pleased about Spikes coming along, but soon enough she was glad, for they would have gotten lost without him. Everything about Dunesea was neat and orderly, but the layout of streets was a complete chaos, for her taste. Still they had a great time eating ice cream on a park bench – Mega-City One credits were accepted everywhere, and Spikes was feeling generous – and watching the lights go on one by one as the rosy light of evening slowly descended upon the city. Hurrying back to their quarters, they managed to be just in time for a late dinner.

Apparently the inhabitants of Dunesea made it a habit to eat extremely late, Dredd grumbled when they were reunited at their quarters. At first Anderson thought he was complaining because eating late was unhealthy or bad for his digestion, but as it turned out, he was just ravenously hungry. At least this meant that his mood improved drastically when they were led into the magnificent dining hall five floors below.

"They've been hiding this place from us all this time?" Spikes exclaimed, turning around in wonder and regarding the glistening chandeliers hanging from the blue and gold ceiling, their light and that of the many little bluish and yellow lamps along the walls reflected brightly in the tall mirrors that filled the spaces not taken up by mosaics in patterns of blue. "Really? How could they?"

"They probably thought you'd set it on fire," Andrin said wisely.

Once again Dredd's time was taken up by Dunesea's officials, and he actually seemed to be getting on quite well with them, as far as Anderson could see. Since she and the twins had apparently been deemed unimportant when the seating arrangements had been made – a fact she didn't mind at all – they sat at a table off to the side, away from the busy bustle in the centre. There were roughly fifty people in the dining hall, Anderson estimated, and hardly anyone was interested in her at all. Patton and Spikes were seated nearby; Anderson wasn't quite sure what position Patton held to the locals. But she was gaining the impression that generally engineers and technicians weren't regarded quite as highly as they deserved here, despite Dunesea being the centre of terraforming operations within the Cursed Earth. It was an odd attitude, in her opinion.

The twins chattered constantly while they ate their salad, about the things they had seen, about the things they would like to see again on their way back. Anderson realised she had not yet thought about the journey home at all until now. Would they return following the same route? She liked the idea of seeing Morris again, but the thought of Gradgrind's grave made a fist clench sharply around her throat, and for a moment she had to blink tears away. Or maybe, if the plague was under control by then, they could be flown back?

The plague. All she had been focused on was how to get to Mega-City Two, but what exactly were they to do once they arrived there? She sincerely hoped Dredd and Patton knew... and that it would not be too late by then.

* * *

Pizza. The concept was new to the Tobler brothers. Thiago had no idea what it was, but from the way Anderson described it, it sounded worth a try. The trouble was that he and Andrin didn't know what half the ingredients were on the list they could pick from. "Do I even like mozzarella cheese?" Andrin wondered aloud beside him, and Thiago was thinking the same about brie cheese with lingonberries. "I could ask him," he suggested, nodding over at Dredd.

Andrin's face lit up with a wide smile, along with Thiago's awareness of his twin growing a little brighter. "Great. Go on, then."

Rising from his seat, Thiago squeezed past the chair of a fascinatingly fat man and over to the table in the middle. Dredd had unzipped his jacket by now, he saw, so he did the same. Sidling up to his superior officer – his elder brother, he reminded himself – he cleared his throat tentatively.

Dredd raised his head. One day he would wear his hair just like him, Thiago decided. "Anything the matter, Tobler?"

You can't really tell us apart, Thiago thought, can you? "Sir, I was wondering what kind of pizza we like. We don't know." The uniformed man with a thin grey fringe around his bald head seated beside Dredd gave him an odd look, but the others were listening to Colonel Westphal commenting on recent developments in trade with outposts and weren't paying their guests any attention.

Dredd gave him a frown, but replied promptly. "One of you should order ham, spicy sausage, tomato and artichokes, with an egg on top, full-grain, the other the cheese and berry option, with additional pineapple, and white. Share them."

Thiago took a moment to mentally repeat it all back to himself. "Thank you, sir." Rushing back to his seat, he plopped himself into his chair, already snatching the order form from his twin. "Gimme that!"

* * *

The evening went by far too quickly. Soon it was time for bed once more. Anderson crawled under her blanket with the awareness that this was the last time she would sleep in a bed for a while. If Dredd felt the same, he didn't let it show.

Once they were back in the Landraider, he would have little chance of avoiding her, but Anderson wasn't sure if she was glad for it or not. A certain feeling of awkwardness had come between them. Should she apologise to him once more? But she was reluctant to bring up the subject; she feared she would blush munce-red and make a fool of herself by stammering or another angry outburst like the rather stupid one she had had on the balcony.

But it still wasn't right, she thought, scowling at her bed curtains. It wasn't right to delve into the innermost regions of someone's mind and then lay them bare for others by writing a report about it!

Yet what else was she to write in her report? She wished they could extend their stay at Dunesea, so she would not have to return to reality. Part of her wanted to run away and stay with Morris and the others at their plantation. But at the same time she knew she would not ignore her duty and desert Dredd, no matter how he was acting at the moment.

Sighing, she rolled over and hugged her pillow. At least they would travel part of the way by carrier the next morning, as far as the mountains. What would those mountains be like? Higher than the so-called Mutie Mountains, that much she knew. And they surely meant slow going. She would have to study her briefing folder again, since a new part of their journey was about to begin.

She would have liked to talk to Dredd, but she could sense that he was about to fall asleep. He wouldn't appreciate being woken again, most likely. Also, he would probably be curt, or even... grumpy. That word made her chuckle into her pillow quietly. Grumpy Dredd.

When she finally fell asleep, her dreams were filled with grey mist and whispering voices, the crackling of static and the smell of ozone. In the morning she only remembered it vaguely, and she seemed to recall that she had asked Dredd for help, but that he had already been one of... _them_.

* * *

Morning dawned bleakly above the dimly gleaming domes, not because the weather was bad – was it ever, here? – but because they were leaving on this day. Andrin scowled out of the window; he would have liked to stay for at least another week. Maybe they could spend some more time here on their way back.

He undressed and went to join Thiago in the whirlpool in their own little bathroom one last time. Sitting in the tub together, the space was a little crammed, but it worked out well enough if both kept their feet to themselves. For once it was convenient that they were small.

They sat there and enjoyed themselves until Dredd appeared in the doorway – not in full protective gear, to Andrin's mild surprise – and told them in no uncertain terms to get out of the tub that very minute. He even stayed for a while, arms crossed and wearing the frown the twins had secretly tried replicating plenty of times already when alone, until he was convinced they were getting dressed now.

_He's awfully grouchy this morning, I think_, Thiago commented, watching Dredd's retreating back.

_We're only letting him get away with it because he's so cool_, Andrin replied with a grin. In reality, there was little they could do about their superior officer's moods. _And we don't want to leave either._

_I'd be a permanent grouchball too if I lost you_, Thiago said. Despite the joke in it, Andrin could feel the wave of affection briefly engulfing him. _Wouldn't want to live without my big idiot brother._

_Nor me_, Andrin agreed firmly. _Not going anywhere without my dumbass baby brother._ He pulled on his trousers. _Do you think he's the big or the little brother?_

Thiago shrugged. _No idea. Maybe Anderson knows. _Through their connection came a giggle._ Do you think he's been in her pants yet?_

Andrin snorted._ If he had, he'd hardly be so grouchy now._

_Here's hoping they get screwing sometime soon, then._

* * *

The carrier left toward midday, but still Anderson felt there was little time to bid good-bye to Dunesea. Soon enough the Landraider was loaded into the cargo bay – not as huge as the one that had held the vehicle on their flight from Mega-City One into the wasteland, but still large enough to swallow the massive Landraider easily. Dunesea's officials and dignitaries had assembled at the airfield by the riverside to bid them farewell in the meantime, and even that ceremony did not take as long as she had thought it might. Already Dredd was ushering them into the carrier's passenger area, which was a lot more crammed than the first one's, and the carrier lifted off before Anderson had fastened her seatbelt. The cabin windows were small and only showed clear blue sky; she could not even look back down on the gleaming white roofs, spires and domes amid the green, but she pictured them receding, and it made her a little sad.

Patton and the twins were feeling the same, she sensed. From Spikes she picked up a mixture of unease and relief; he was glad to have escaped the arrest warrant – a public whipping on top of a prison sentence? Really? That seemed somewhat... old-fashioned. She wasn't sure about Dredd; as usual he was hiding behind his wall of control and grim determination, and she had no intention at all to dig any deeper.

"How long 'til we reach Mega-City Two?" she asked Dredd after a while of silence.

"Something like two weeks, if we're lucky. More like three if we're not." Dredd was holding his helmet on his knees; Anderson half expected him to put it on any moment. "We'll refill our tanks once more at Repentance, just in case. Then it's over the South Pass, pretty much into uncharted territory. We know surprisingly little about that area."

"I've been beyond Repentance, actually," Spikes supplied. "Well, not far, but still. They say there's a village where the women are pretty generous with their affections." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"We won't be stopping there," Dredd decreed promptly.

"Aww, Judgey! You're no fun at all!"

Anderson frowned at her fingernails, which definitely needed clipping again. Two weeks, if not longer. A lot of things could happen in two weeks. How far could a pandemic spread in that time? Would the supplies of the not yet infected last that long? Would their barricades hold? When the Landraider reached Mega-City Two at last, would it be too late?


	15. The Bells of Repentance

_**Author's Note: **There is a reason for the long wait - with over 13K words, this is the longest chapter up to date. It's also the reason why I haven't answered several PMs yet. Sorry, guys. Will do so ASAP.  
But before you get started with the chapter: Have you SIGNED THE OFFICIAL PETITION yet? 2000 AD started one (and if you don't know who they are, be ashamed of yourself!), nearing 70.000 signatures currently. Show your support for a sequel by adding your signature to their list. Otherwise the sentence is three weeks iso-cubes. Your choice, creeps. You have twenty seconds to comply.__ The link is in my profile._ _(And if you haven't bought the DVD or BluRay yet, do it NOW. Sales are the only sure thing to convinces a studio.)**  
**_

* * *

**15. The Bells of Repentance**

"They say mountain air is healthy," Spikes announced, balancing precariously on a rock outcropping.

"Not in the Cursed Earth," Dredd remarked dryly after a glance over Patton's shoulder at the radiation count the instrument in the engineer's hand was showing.

"Yes," Patton confirmed, "we'd all better take a rad pill, just in case."

"Come on, everybody back in." Not that the radiation level was that high, but Dredd hoped to reach some resemblance of cover before that nasty-looking yellowish cloud in the south came any closer. It was a massive sandstorm, he would have bet his badge on that.

The sun was sitting low above the mountains rearing up all along the western horizon already. They had started out immediately after the carrier had put them down near Laramie Peak, a pale, bare, solitary pyramid of rock rising above lower mountains, and they had travelled for approximately two hours, following the Platte river that flowed a little south of the dirt track they were following. The North Platte, Dredd corrected himself; according to the map they had passed its fork less than halfway from Dunesea already. The old Denver lay somewhere at its southern arm – Ghost Town, as they called it now, ruins in which the wind sang at night. Dredd would have liked to see this strange memorial to a world long dead now, but there was no time for such a long detour. Mega-City Two was waiting.

Until now their going was easier than he had feared. The ground was rocky and uneven, but at least there was a trail they could follow. Maybe they would even reach Repentance the next day already? It probably was too much to hope for. According to the folder, the pass was relatively easy to travel, but Dredd had not quite believed it and still was reluctant to. They were crossing a kind of continental divide, after all. Apparently there had been a highway and railroad track crossing the mountains further south, but they had been destroyed during the war, like so many other things. What was left was the old Oregon Trail, the path settlers had taken centuries ago to cross these mountains. The path they would have to follow now.

When the sandstorm hit soon after they had climbed back into the Landraider, it hit them with more force than any they had experienced before. Even Dredd grew uneasy as they waited in the meagre cover a rock wall could offer them. Patton seemed calm, though. Little short of a nuclear blast could tear the vehicle apart, he joked. When finally the storm moved on, it wasn't easy for Patton to manoeuvre the Landraider out of the masses of sand that had buried them. Dredd hoped the carrier had managed to avoid any such condition on its way back to Dunesea.

When they stopped for the night, sleeping on the Killdozer's floor felt more uncomfortable than it had before, after the soft mattress at Dunesea, but Dredd kept it to himself. A Judge should not enjoy such comforts too much. Anderson remarked upon it, but then bedded down beside him without any further complaints. Dredd resisted the childish urge to get up again and sit in the cockpit until he was convinced she was asleep. Whatever she had seen in his mind, his avoiding her would not erase it from her memory. He just hoped what he had unwillingly revealed had not been too shaming for him.

At least she would keep his secrets, he was certain of that.

* * *

They started out early the next morning. Sand drifts from the previous day's storm occasionally slowed them down, and once they had to briefly uncouple the modules to cross a particularly difficult stretch of ground, but in the evening they found themselves on a high plateau, looking back down across empty rock and desert landscape. Settlements were few and far between, and usually fortified.

In the afternoon of the following day, they finally reached Repentance. Surrounded by a high stone wall with towers at regular intervals, it guarded the bumpy mountain road from a slight rise above a plateau opening up behind it. The briefing folder was right, Dredd saw, scowling at the city through the windscreen, there really was no way past it.

"The end of the civilized world," Spikes remarked, entering the cockpit and leaning on Patton's seat.

Dredd snorted. "Civilized?"

"All is relative, Judgey."

Dredd rolled his eyes. "Any convictions here we ought to know about, or perhaps some more humorous acts of vandalism or similar you're wanted for?"

"None of the above," Spikes replied smoothly. "Always kept a low profile in this place. Compared to them, you Judges are cuddly."

Though he strongly resented the term "cuddly", Dredd knew for a fact that the justice system here was harsh. Small wonder, in a settlement out in an irradiated wilderness, with mutant clans and bands of brigands inhabiting the regions further up the mountains and all kinds of creatures roaming outside its walls at night. "Good. You're coming with me, then. Patton, stop. They must have seen us by now. We'll take the bikes to the gate, have a word with them, see if we can re-fill our tanks, and then we'll be on our way."

"They might demand a price," Spikes pointed out. "You know, for a small private party they most likely wouldn't, not much, anyway, but for something as, well, official-looking... Just saying, we should expect it."

Dredd sighed as he picked up his helmet from near his feet and put it on. Trading and diplomacy. This was not his field of expertise, and he had no intention of learning anything more about it than he already knew. Curse this mission! "What kind of price?" His impatience must be clearly audible in his voice, but he did not care.

"Oh, you know... civilized stuff. A bit of our protein rations, that kind of thing. Or some piece of technology. You never know, it depends on their mood."

"There's plenty of things I can simply run through the plasteen printer," Patton put in. "No big deal. You might want to direct their interest towards that direction, sir."

Of course, the plasteen printer. There was one in the cargo hold; they had not yet used it, but it could be useful to have one along if one wanted to replace certain components – those made of plasteen, anyway. Sadly, those made of metal required technology a lot more complicated. "Thank you, Patton, I'll keep that in mind."

"They won't be particularly friendly, most likely," Spikes warned.

"I don't care," Dredd said. "Then I won't have to be polite either." On second thought, he added, "Patton, you're coming too."

* * *

Anderson used the time while Dredd was away for some psychic practice with the cadets. She preferred to do it without him seeing, so she wouldn't bring up a currently very touchy subject. The boys weren't bothered in the slightest, however; they were eager to learn how to detect intrusions into their minds. And they were making some progress, in her opinion. What they still couldn't do, though, was read anyone else except each other, but Anderson would not give up just yet. Maybe their connection really worked that way, but maybe that was just what they had taught themselves to think. Anderson found once again that she hardly knew anything about psychic abilities.

Perhaps there really was a chance to see Morris and his family again on their way back?

Spontaneously she decided to try something else. "Go in all the way," she told Thiago, whose turn it was currently to assault his brother's mind. "Don't just touch him. Push in, take him over, hear with his ears, look through his eyes. Settle in like it's your own body. Andrin, let him."

Thiago looked doubtful, but he attempted to do what she had told him. Closing her eyes, Anderson watched them seemingly become one, two minds occupying the same space. Were they touching, or were the apart? She didn't quite know how to describe it; this was the first time she got to witness this from outside. Not that she had frequently done it herself, to be honest. There was so much she needed to explore! But at the same time, part of her told her that she shouldn't.

"This is weird," Thiago said, calling her back to reality. "I see double."

"And I feel... groped," Andrin remarked. It immediately caused the boys to dissolve into giggles, and the connection broke.

"Concentrate," Anderson reprimanded them mildly. Should she even be teaching such a thing? From the hold Thiago had had on his brother, he could have taken over his mind completely, most likely, and turned him into a puppet. It was a kind of power nobody should have, she felt. "Andrin, you try it now."

The Chief Judge wanted her to use her abilities, though. There was no way around it.

Well, against criminals... She had no qualm utilising her unique skills in pursuit of justice. But this... this mission she had been given... It always came back to that same thing, this private mission of hers, and the violation of her friends' minds.

And those boys still trusted her and were happy to train with her...

When the others returned after a while, they all weren't in a particularly good mood. Anderson didn't exactly try to read their minds, but some thoughts practically jumped at her. Patton was disgruntled that the representatives of Repentance had not been ready to believe the Landraider carried technology similar to theirs that they might find useful, what came from Spikes could best be summed up as sulky because he and Patton had to ride double to the gates and back while Dredd had claimed a bike to himself both times, and Dredd... He was almost flashing scarlet thunderbolts in her perception. "Anderson," he announced in a rough voice, yanking off his helmet and slamming it onto the tactical table with a lot more force than necessary, "we're joining the circus."

Anderson swallowed. Seeing Dredd in this mood made her wish for something urgent for her to attend to at the very back of the Killdozer. "What happened, sir?" she asked carefully.

Shrugging out of his protective vest and tossing it onto the bench beside the tense and wide-eyed twins, Dredd produced a sound that was halfway between a snort and a growl and might have been funny under different circumstances. "Those retarded hillbilly fuckwits drove a fucking hard bargain!"

_Retarded hillbilly fuckwits_, Thiago repeated happily.

_Yeah_, Andrin agreed, _we're so gonna steal that line!_

"What do they want?" Anderson asked, fearing another outburst and doing her best to ignore the boys.

This time Patton answered in Dredd's place, calmly and quietly, but quickly, probably to prevent their commanding officer from raging some more. "They want to see a staged fight between two Judges. In return we can refill our tanks and canisters, and they'll give us some information on current dangers ahead."

"You forgot to mention how they're refusing to let us past otherwise," Dredd growled. Anderson wouldn't have needed to feel his hissing, flashing red aura to know he was furious. When she turned her attention to it, she could see threads of black interlacing with the red tendrils in a pattern of strange and unsettling beauty.

"We could force our way through," Andrin spoke up.

"Yes, but we'd waste a lot of ammo and risk damage to the Landraider," Thiago surprisingly objected. There was a brief… flow of changing colours between the two of them, so brief that Anderson almost missed it.

Dredd flicked his tongue over his upper lip; apparently it was an unconscious gesture in connection with his attempt at calming himself, for at the same time something like a grey veil ran over his flaring halo and smothered it down to a paler colour or smokier quality, Anderson could not quite say which. "Pretty much that," he admitted, his voice sounding compressed. "There's quite some firepower behind those walls. I lost one good man already, I won't risk losing more, or endanger our mission." He sighed, his usual grim, but controlled self once more, though Anderson felt little flames lick at the walls of his mind.

"It's considered an honour, actually," Spikes provided. "They sometimes invite foreign mercenaries or cage fighters of renown, and that's quite the event. Seems they make a lot of money from it too." Noticing Dredd's glare, he shrugged apologetically. "It's where they draw their profits from, mostly, to pay for water purifiers and rad meds and all that. Repentance lies near the border of the contam zone. They need their arena to survive, you could say, and presenting a pair of Judges is gonna draw all the folks from the outlying settlements."

Anderson had to admit it made sense. "Fine," she agreed, "I'll do it." Those settler communities had to make a living somehow, and it was cheaper for their party to pay with a public sparring match, instead of credits and supplies – as long as they weren't held up for long, anyway. Mega-City Two could not afford to wait too long.

"Us too," Thiago supplied, after the obligatory exchanged glance with his twin.

"Last time I checked, neither of you were Judges," Dredd remarked. "It's gonna be Anderson and me."

Anderson thought she detected mild disappointment from the boys, but Patton distracted her. The engineer had gone to the cockpit in the meantime and now suddenly announced, "You might wanna see this."

Immediately they all rushed into the cockpit, even Dredd in a swift stride, and Anderson felt a brief flare-up of agitation from him that abated as soon as he had arrived at Patton's side. The twins shuffled past him to the front and uttered squeals of delight straight away that made Anderson wonder if Dredd had ever sounded like that. Standing on tiptoe, she looked over his shoulder –

"What are they?" one of the twins asked; she wasn't sure which one and didn't care right now.

"Dinosaurs," Patton said simply.

Fascinated, Anderson regarded the herd of greenish-grey animals that had appeared ahead and was crossing the broad valley northwards at a steady pace, but without any apparent hurry, and without paying the Landraider the slightest attention. There were about twenty of them. Their shoulders must be higher than Dredd's head, she estimated, though guessing at their approximate size wasn't easy from a distance of about thirty metres. They reminded her of the creatures called elephants she had seen at a Summer Parade once, except that their bodies were longer, if most likely smaller, and that a massive bone shield with several horns extending from its rim adorned their large heads. Another horn, long and curved, decorated their slightly beak-like noses. On some of those shields she spotted patterns of red or brown. Their tails, relatively thick and short, lazily wagged behind them as they determinedly plodded along. When she reached out, she could vaguely feel their minds, cool and strange and relatively calm.

"What are those called?" Dredd asked after a little while of quiet observation. "Triceratops or something?"

"They're styracosaurs," Spikes answered promptly. "A triceratops has three horns, one on the nose and two on the forehead. They'll grow six feet tall on average, fifteen to twenty in length, and they can weigh up to three tons. One of the first cloned species to live in Laramie Park, herbivores, easy to handle and pretty harmless, though they really don't look like it. The big ones with the red dots on their shields are the males."

Anderson wasn't the only one to gaze at the skinny punk in astonishment. "How do you know all that?" Patton asked, clearly as surprised as she was.

Spikes shrugged. "A man needs a hobby, right? I just like dinosaurs."

"Certainly better than theft and vandalism," Dredd commented.

In return, Spikes offered him a huge grin that bared his teeth, which were surprisingly white and even, Anderson noticed. "You forgot the traffic violations, Judgey boy."

Anderson watched the herd until it disappeared behind a rock outcropping. There had been a few zoos breeding those before the war, as far as she knew, but she had never wondered about what had become of them after the nuclear disaster. At least some of them had survived, apparently. Were they naturally resilient against radiation, or was it harming them too, ever so slowly?

* * *

Like Dunesea, Repentance was surrounded by a fairly high wall, though not nearly as sheer and high as Dunesea's. It rather was a rough stone barrier with patches of different materials fitted in seemingly at random. The gate was a monstrosity of metal and plasteen, rusted in places, that was pulled upwards on thick, creaking chains as the Landraider passed through into town. Picturing it slamming down behind them again, raising sheets of dust, Anderson couldn't help feeling trapped. Don't be stupid, she scolded herself, it'll be fine! It's just a smaller and less modern version of Dunesea!

In fact it was very different. The streets were much narrower as well as dirtier, the buildings, shabby as often as not, lacked any obvious order, and a good part of the inhabitants that lurked at street corners looked just as dirty as their surroundings. Dust seemed to be everywhere, covering surfaces, hanging in the air, clinging to clothing, matting hair, staining faces. Sickly-looking yellowish creepers winding up some of the walls were the only plants in sight. Once they passed a church on their way, a stone building that looked sleek in comparison to those around it, with a slim square tower rising up high above the surrounding roofs, an edifice built with more care than most others, but crude when remembering Dunesea.

Who was in charge here? Anderson had neglected to consult her folder on the matter; she did not even recall whether or not it touched on the matter. But Dredd did not seem to be in the right mood to ask, and Spikes was at his shoulder constantly right now.

Not that it was important to her, really; all she needed to do was take part in a sparring match. It was something she had done countless times at the Academy of Law, against her fellow cadets. To be honest, she hadn't been that good, though her psychic ability had come in rather handy in detecting opponents' intentions just in time. Even Instructor Kelly had complimented her once on what he thought were fast reflexes. But this time her opponent would be Dredd, and she had promised to stay out of his head. Well, maybe she would catch flashes without trying. She hadn't promised to block out what came to her all by itself, after all. Against an opponent as formidable as him, one ought to be allowed a little bit of cheating... right?

Sparring partner, not opponent, she corrected herself. Dredd wouldn't risk doing her any harm. She might get a handful of bruises out of this, but nothing more serious than that. This was Dredd, and she trusted him. No, there would be no cheating, especially not if it involved reading his mind. She had promised.

"Anderson," Dredd said just then, leaving Patton and Spikes in the cockpit and pulling her along to the Killdozer by the arm, past the twins sullenly seated at the tactical table with their repetition pads once more, taking a practice test on civil law, "we need to talk strategy."

"OK," Anderson readily agreed, grateful when he let go of her at the steps leading upwards to the Killdozer's command console, right after the hatch between the two modules. At least he was talking to her again of his own volition – well, more or less – but he really did not have to drag her. "Usual sparring rules? Maybe we could use sticks." She knew for a fact that there were some in the cargo hold, along with other weapons, though they hadn't yet used them. No, the twins had, Gradgrind had had them train with them.

Thinking of Gradgrind still threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

When Dredd stopped by the Killdozer's main console and turned back to her, he was wearing his usual scowl. "I think they'll be wanting to see something more spectacular than that."

"But sir," Anderson protested, "we can't actually hurt each other! Not much, anyway!"

Unexpectedly one corner of his mouth twitched slightly upwards briefly. "Thanks for not reading my mind. I was thinking of showy hand-to-hand techniques – throws, takedowns, fancy kicks, that kind of thing. Like, personally I prefer the outside foot sweep when I can pick, but that doesn't look spectacular enough for an arena."

Oh. Of course. "I could do some jump kicks," she suggested. Perfected by lots of practice, it still wasn't something she had considered using in real combat yet. Of course, she had not been in a great number of actual combat situations until now. "When I jump, I can reach your head."

"Good," Dredd said grimly. "Then we'll make that your style."

"My style?" Anderson repeated, confused.

"Don't you know how cage fights work?" There might have been a flicker of impatience in his presence, but she firmly refused to feel anything from him. "Each combatant fights in a certain style. For example, the small, swift one against the slower, but stronger one. I suggest you prance around a lot and do all the showy spins and jumps you can come up with, while I'll be the tank. I'll rely on punching and try to get you in a grapple. I'll try to force you into close range, you'll try to keep me at kicking distance. They'll probably have screens all around the arena, so we'll have to make the hits look at least half realistic, but we can make sure our gear takes the worst of it."

Anderson nodded. This more or less suited her; she had never liked close range or grappling on the ground much, though there were a handful of takedowns she was quite comfortable with, including two performed from the ground. "Maybe we could practise a few moves?" she suggested.

Dredd nodded curtly. "I'm rather counting on that."

* * *

They were assigned quarters in a relatively faceless grey stone building ten stories high, but still dwarfed by the crouching black moloch next to it that was the arena, a massive roofless oval rising to surprising height among plain, unadorned buildings around it, of which most were less than four stories high. Anderson's throat felt constricted as she looked up to it. It's just a sports stadium, she told herself, but she could not quite fight down an uneasy feeling at its sight.

The Landraider just barely fit into the garage, and only after the black jeep parked inside was moved out into the street. Still it was a narrow fit. A handful of representatives came to meet them, in old-fashioned-looking suits and striped ties like they had apparently been worn a long time ago. Curiosity was the sentiment most present around them, though Anderson detected a strong streak of greed among the group, such an eager longing for large earnings that she shut her mind to what they were broadcasting in sheer disgust. For once she welcomed wearing her helmet. One man in particular stood out, of average and unremarkable appearance except for one strand of his nondescript brown hair dyed scarlet, he practically seemed to twitch with anticipation of more than the arena made in earnings otherwise. Expectations were high, Anderson realised, in every sense. The chubby little man speaking for the mayor of this town, one woman named Collins, as it seemed, was considering the presence of Judges, those exotic heroes of many a story, a great honour and was excited about seeing their legendary skills and prowess in combat. It was for the best Dredd had ordered the cadets to stay inside the Landraider for now, she thought, or else the little politician – she hadn't quite caught his name as he introduced himself, but refused to pick it from his head now – might have requested their appearance in front of an audience too, and Anderson tended to agree with Dredd being strictly against that, though she did not know his exact reasoning.

When the man with the scarlet strand in his hair – the one Anderson disliked – suggested that same night as the night for their arena appearance, Spikes argued that the decision made little sense, commerce-wise, but Dredd agreed straight away. The sooner they were gone, the better for Mega-City Two. If it didn't get too late, they might leave this very night, right after the spectacle. Somehow Anderson didn't really want to stay in this town any longer than necessary. Perhaps it was just that feeling of greed that permeated her senses if she did not consciously block it out, even with her helmet on, but there was something about this place she didn't like at all.

Were the dinosaurs active at night? She hardly knew anything about dinosaurs. There might be predators out there too, though the idea of one of them attacking the Landraider was plain absurd.

Finally a surly woman with her hair in a tight bun offered to show them to their quarters. Anderson went to get her and Dredd's things from their transport, and the twins, looking more sullen than before, probably because Dredd had made them change into civilian garb in the meantime, brought the rest. They wouldn't need much for a few hours. Patton made sure the Landraider was securely locked behind them; Anderson suspected he felt the same way she did about this place.

They got to rest for two hours in a large, dim room with mattresses on the floor, but at least the air was relatively cool in there. A spindly girl in threadbare shorts and T-shirt even brought them two jugs of water and glasses full of ice cubes, and a little later a man turned up with flatbread, dried fruit and protein cubes in various flavours. By now Anderson was fairly hungry, but Dredd gave her little time to eat. Instead he had her stay in full gear and perform various martial arts moves on her own or with the twins, observing her closely. He probably was mapping out his choreography already, she assumed. Hopefully he wouldn't expect her to remember long sequences, she wasn't particularly good at that.

"Why can't we come, too?" Thiago complained after a while. Anderson had been waiting for it and wondering whether it would be him.

"Because I said so," Dredd snapped, causing both twins to simultaneously push out their lower lip a little in an almost amusing display of sulkiness. Especially Andrin spent the next few minutes scowling in a way quite worthy of his elder brother.

She read them every single time she wanted to know which was which, she realised. She did not venture far into their heads, but she did push past the confines of their minds slightly without a second thought, like the prick of a needle, to tell them apart. It was the only way for her to be certain which one was Andrin and which one Thiago, but it wasn't right. It wasn't right either. She had been ordered to study them, but it wasn't fair to just slip into their heads whenever she wanted to. And when had she stopped thinking about it before casting a glimpse into their awareness? When had this invasion of their minds ceased to be a conscious act and become a habit? Anderson felt angry, and ashamed of herself.

"Pay attention, will you?" Dredd's raspy voice brought her back to the present. She did not need to feel it to know he was in a bad mood because of this arena fight and had little patience at the moment. "I said, block my cross with a crescent kick."

"Yes, sir." It was a question of timing, of a fast reaction, but not an impossible feat by far. "Inward or outward?"

"Inward, obviously. You do it outward, you're open for my right hook." He demonstrated, though without touching her.

"I could use the other leg," she insisted.

Dredd gave a snort. "Yeah, sure, when you're standing right forward."

"I could," she insisted stubbornly. How was this all her fault? She hadn't asked for it any more than he had! "Besides, I've got my cover up all the time."

"Suit yourself." He tested the range for an elbow strike, then simulated various attacks with his knee. "Just don't screw this up."

Anderson swallowed a sharp retort. "Do the rules allow for grappling at all?" she asked instead.

Dredd looked at Spikes, who was currently stuffing colourful little protein cubes into his mouth with both hands. "Do they?"

"No idea," Spikes admitted with his mouth full. He gesticulated while chewing hastily, then, with half of the food swallowed, he continued, "I mean, I've seen a big arena fight here once, and a couple smaller ones, but they switched the rules depending on the match."

"Let's prepare for it, then," Dredd decreed, much to Anderson's dismay. She had never liked fighting on the ground, especially not against heavier opponents. "I'll need to get the feel of your weight for a throw. Give me a jab – no, faster than that. Hey, faster! Do it properly – whoa!" For just then Anderson had brushed his chin with her fist with rather more force than necessary. "Concentrate, for a change, how about it? Don't need you hitting me in the face."

By now Anderson had about had enough of his foul temper. "I'd probably scrape the skin off my knuckles on that stupid stubble of yours," she shot back, voicing the first thing that came to mind. "How about shaving, for a change?"

"Hey, Judgies," Spikes quickly interrupted what threatened to develop into a quarrel, "how about eating and then getting some rest, eh? If they want a big turn-out, they can't just spontaneously put us on the program after just about two hours, or folks ain't gonna hear about it in time."

At first Dredd looked as if he couldn't decide whose head to rip off first, but then, very suddenly, he laughed wryly, sat down on one of the mattresses and placed his helmet next to him, then scrubbed his hands through his sweaty hair. "It makes me uneasy when you're the voice of reason, Spikes," he remarked.

Anderson inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. She had been steeling herself for a very unpleasant confrontation and was glad she had avoided it. "I'm a little tired," she now was ready to admit. "I think I can't concentrate so well right now."

"Lie down, then," Dredd said promptly. He even poured her a glass of water while she peeled herself out of her helmet, vest, knee and elbow pads, belt and jacket and brought her some bread and dried fruit, probably the closest thing to an apology she could expect from him at the moment.

For a while she dozed off, but though the others were keeping their voices down – Patton had taken the chance to lie down for a short time as well –, she couldn't quite find rest. This town she hardly knew made her uneasy. Something, _something_ was going on. And she just couldn't put a finger on what was wrong. Otherwise she would have been curious to see and explore new places, but this time... The sooner they could leave, the better.

* * *

Dredd was fairly certain that Anderson was feeling... twitchy. He wasn't too pleased with this, since it seriously interfered with her concentration, but he was reluctant to confront and question her. She was a psychic, after all; was there something she detected that he could not? Had she gotten any reading from the town politicians and businessmen she had met? When they had last spoken to them, he had gotten the distinct feeling that she had been somewhere else mentally, maybe assessing any potential danger she could locate in their minds? If so, had she found anything? Apparently not, or else she would have told him already.

He should have taken her along from the very beginning. Perhaps they could have struck a better bargain by using her powers? But no, he had had to be childish and awkward and refuse to discuss anything of the like. How long did he intend to keep his avoiding tactics up? This was getting plain ridiculous. He wasn't a silly little cadet anymore!

Maybe it would be best to question her after all. Her attitude was making him uneasy, too.

Just then a knock came on the door. Gesturing to Spikes, Dredd went to answer it. There was no time to don his full gear before opening the door, but he threw his jacket back on while crossing the room to look at least half impressive. Ushering the punk out into the corridor, he pulled the door shut behind them.

The boy outside could be no older than the twins – no older than the twins _looked_, Dredd corrected himself; he knew best, after all, that a young clone's appearance did not correspond with his real age. Clearing his throat nervously, the visitor announced, "Sir Judge, Mister Kratky wants me to tell you that the games will start at nineteen sharp, just as planned, and that you're up at around twenty... if that's alright with you, Sir Judge?" he added as an afterthought before clearing his throat again.

Mister Kratky, eh? Had the businessman who seemed to own the arena taken over the official dealings with them, then? Dredd had wondered about the balance of power between that man with the ridiculous red strand of hair and the mayor and her representatives previously. This Kratky was powerful, no doubt, and no surprise there, he ran the one venue in town that seemed to keep it supplied with all the necessary goods. Was he an employee of Repentance's government or a private citizen? Dredd would have rather liked to know the answer to that. Either way, he did not like this Kratky. On general principle, he was suspicious of businessmen, and that one had smiled far too much.

The boy was still waiting for an answer, brushing his dark hair out of his pimply face and flicking his tongue over his chafed lips in a clear display of nervousness. "You can tell Kratky we're fine with that," Dredd said. "I'd appreciate if he'd arrange for the tanks and canisters to be refilled before that, so we can be off afterwards."

"You're not staying, sir?" The boy sounded disappointed. "Mister Kratky said you might stay a while and compete some more, maybe even against Little Hades tomorrow, he has a free slot..."

"We can't," Dredd informed him curtly. Radiation poisoning take businessmen and their expectations! "Urgent mission."

The boy looked positively crestfallen, but rushed along to relay the message nonetheless.

"Smitten into the bowels of the Earth, just when they were getting their hopes up," Spikes commented, grinning. "That's gonna smart. Maybe they even announced it already, or started the ticket sale."

Dredd shrugged. He didn't care. After their part in the agreement was done, this place was none of his concern anymore. "Ever heard of an athlete called Little Hades?"

"Never," Spikes replied, lowering his voice when they returned to the room where Anderson and Patton were sleeping. "But it's been a while. The new local champ, I guess. Once he's made enough money, he'll probably move on to bigger and better things. Bet that's what the last one did. No one in his right mind stays in this shithole for long if he doesn't have to."

"Or if he has a flourishing business here," Dredd remarked.

"Or that." Spikes gladly returned to eating protein cubes.

Dredd decided to get a little rest himself before he went back to choreographing a fight in his head; Anderson was sleeping soundly, it seemed. Eventually he woke her to try out a few things, though, and thankfully this time she kept her head together. Tiredness and nerves, probably. He just hoped she wouldn't blank out on him in that accursed arena. The twins came to participate immediately, and once again they whined about making an appearance themselves, which he forbade categorically. He wasn't selling his little brothers' abilities to some murky businessman and a sensation-hungry public. There was no way he could spare Anderson – had Gradgrind still been with them, he would have had her masquerading as a civilian too – but at least the boys could be kept away from what felt like contamination to him.

* * *

Just as they had announced originally, Reuben Denton, the fat little vice-mayor from earlier on, returned with Kratky himself and two other men to bring them to the arena. Patton, Spikes and the cadets were herded into a flashy car that probably pre-dated the war to take them to seats in the VIP area, as Kratky promised with a wide smile that made Dredd want to strangle him, while he himself and Anderson were brought to the bulky black building's back entrance. They were not expected to use any weapons, which was a relief, but Kratky readily agreed to provide them with lightly padded sticks as Dredd brought up the subject. One could do lots of showy things with sticks.

The back entrance, secured by an additional heavy trellised gate, opened into a relatively dark corridor leading down into the arena's basement. A skinny man with a large camera mounted on his shoulder stumbled ahead of them backwards, filming their arrival with visible excitement. Dredd felt a strong urge to kick him, or at least trip him, but restrained himself. By tonight this would all be over.

"It must be our uniforms," Anderson remarked softly, with a small smile. "Or maybe your spectacular scowl. Really, you should see yourself."

Dredd chose not to comment on that. Well, at least Anderson had found her spirits again.

Each of them was assigned a small changing room, with a large guard clad in what looked like red and black latex outside the door. Anderson visibly had to stifle a giggle at this, but Dredd found it rather unsettling. Why would they need protection? Or were those club-wielding giants meant to keep them from escaping?

"Get changed," Kratky advised, "and if you need anything, let the boys know."

Dredd caught him by the sleeve of his fine grey jacket. "Changed? Why would we need to get changed?"

For a moment the owner's smile slipped, but it was in place again swiftly, a much practised expression. "Why, you are competing as athletes, not as… as soldiers. By tradition we show the public fights that don't involve dangers, for the… the public safety, and for the kids… They're staged as, you know, as sporting events... My attendants have prepared the traditional garments for you. You can leave your belongings in the changing room, they won't be touched."

Traditional garments? A preposterous way to say "a pair of shorts", but whatever. "Fine," Dredd agreed. This changed things, of course; he had expected to fight in full gear, which would have meant that they would not have had to be quite as careful as they would have to be now. "Do we get gloves, then?"

"Yes, yes," Kratky assured him, his ever-present smile widening as he gestured grandly. "All is prepared for you and the little lady."

"She's not a little lady, she's a Judge," Dredd growled. He knew there were places where women were held in less esteem than men or at least not taken as seriously, and this might be one of them. Maybe he should let Anderson win the fight, in that case.

"Of course, of course." The owner was gesturing in an assuaging way now. His jacket had a bright red lining, Dredd saw, brighter even than the dyed strand of hair above his left temple. "You still have over an hour left to prepare, relax, oil your skin, whatever you like. Your water counters are set to two litres of water, and there is some dried beef and fruit. And if you feel any more... _personal_ needs" – here his constant smile widened to expose a set of surprisingly wide teeth – "my boys can arrange for a girl or a boy to be brought to you, just give them your preferences, size, build, age –"

"That won't be necessary," Dredd interrupted. He wouldn't put it past the man to offer him a minor to abuse. Which would of course mean that he would have to take action of some kind. But Repentance was not under the jurisdiction of Mega-City One, which made this a lot more complicated than it would have been otherwise. Perhaps he could have a quiet word with that fat vice-mayor later on, but he feared that Kratky wouldn't be touched by any authority here.

Still wearing a wide smile, the arena owner excused himself and rushed back where he had come from, leaving Dredd and Anderson with the guards in latex, who were staring ahead impassively. With a shrug, Dredd went to get changed. There was enough time to discuss a change of strategy with his companion later on.

The walls of the changing room were the same plain dark grey concrete as those in the corridors. The room was small and had a low ceiling, and it contained nothing but a washstand with a mirror over it that had a cracked corner, a tiny table, currently holding a basket of bread and fruit, as promised, and a cot with a thin blanket. The light came from an old-fashioned neon tube above the mirror that managed to be garish while leaving the room relatively dim at the same time.

Dredd picked a flat piece of dried fruit from the basket before he started undressing. Munce? He chewed while he took off his helmet and started removing the gloves and elbow pads. No, mango, as it seemed. Before he removed his protective vest, belt and Lawgiver holster and deposited them on top of the cot, he picked another from the basket. Oh, and pineapple. And were those... yes, sweetened dried cranberries. There must be a glass house here – or else a very skilled manufacturer of synthetic food, but he doubted that. Otherwise this place wouldn't on occasion suffer from shortages.

Unless that factory was run by a businessman like Kratky, he thought as he removed his knee pads and kicked off his boots. Someone with a false smile who would readily create shortages by his manufacturing policy, or by demanding exorbitant prices. Economy had never been Dredd's strongest subject – not that much of it was taught at the Academy – and perhaps this was part of the reason why he harboured a strong dislike for wealthy businessmen: Somehow he felt they knew something he did not and acted smug about it. Perhaps he was being petty, but then again, how could he approve of anyone living in such immense abundance as some of those businessmen did while others hardly managed to scrape a living? And yet there was nothing he could do about it, since there was no rule against it. The law wasn't always fair, he was well aware of that. With a grimace he took off his jacket and tossed it down onto the cot. That was the way of the world, some had it all and then some, and others starved. And he wasn't going to change that. In plenty of cases of those dying from neglect and starvation, it was good riddance anyway.

Shedding the rest of his clothes, he just kept on his underpants and, as the only piece of protective gear, his groin protector. He trusted Anderson, but there were certain limits where some parts of his anatomy were concerned. Then he took a look at the bundle of black fabric waiting for him at the edge of the washstand. What he had expected to be voluminous black shorts turned out to be a towel wrapped around a pair of plain black lightly padded training gloves and –

He actually dropped the gloves. The shorts hidden in there were nothing short of an abomination. Extremely short, but still flaring out at the waist, they were made of some silky pale blue fabric, with flame patterns in white and orange sewn onto the side, richly decorated with silver thread. The worst part by far, though, was the large diamond on the groin, glittering with silver just like the flames.

Dredd's first impulse was to march out, grab one guard by the collar and demand another pair of shorts, but imagining how stupid this was going to look in his current state of dress, he grated his teeth and pulled them on. He was grateful there was no full-length mirror in the room; seeing it from above was bad enough already. Due to the protective cup directly underneath it, the diamond seemed even more prominent.

With a sigh, he took the basket of food and sat down on the edge of the cot, with the basket covering that offensive diamond. This whole thing was a farce. And he would have to mention it in his report, too. Maybe he could skim over it, keep it to a minimum... Someone like McGruder was quite capable of asking detail, though.

The scar Lex had given him was still clearly visible above his waistband, a small pink line that would probably fade completely over the course of the next few months, just like the bruises from the bullets at Deliverance were fading already, purple and yellowish forming an ugly mixture. At least it would look spectacular for the arena. There was a bruise on his shin too, from the fight in the church tower; that one still felt a little sore after a week. Maybe he should tell Anderson to be careful with it.

Heading over to her now to discuss their new strategy might be a good idea, actually. Stuffing a handful of dried meat into his mouth, Dredd got up, replaced the basket on the washstand and picked up towel and gloves and his hand bandages, and, with a last disapproving look down himself, went to see how Anderson was doing. The door couldn't be opened from the outside, but still he told the guards to keep a close eye on his equipment. Without waiting for their grunts of acknowledgment, he knocked on Anderson's door.

Anderson opened up straight away and in her underwear, which led Dredd to believe that she had used her psychic abilities to find out who wanted to see her; he seriously doubted she would receive Kratky's men in this attire. Privilege. It made him laugh inwardly. With a shared locker room at the sector house, he knew exactly what the female version of the standard issue underwear looked like. And after that time Hershey had sternly lectured him on public relations and his embarrassing lack of knowledge thereof while clad only in a towel, before marching off to the women's showers, he didn't really consider it an extreme state of undress either. Her gaze fell on his shorts, and all she said was, "Oh." The grin appeared immediately, and Dredd quickly brushed past her; the guards did not have to witness this.

Just when he was about to pull the door shut behind him, he heard something coming from outside, something he had rarely ever heard until now: the sound of bells. Tolling from somewhere above, they rang through the arena's catacombs in a deep, muffled tone, resounding from the walls and filling the corridor outside with an unceasing sonorous note that managed to set Dredd's teeth on edge.

Anderson peeked out beside him. "They used to ring the bells when someone died, back in the old days, didn't they?" she asked quietly. Clearly she found this just as mildly unsettling as he did.

"Only one bell. The death knell, they called it." He remembered it from a book that he and Rico had read, sitting huddled together and each holding one edge of the cover, back when they had been small boys. A book in itself had been exciting enough already, but it had been a publication from the twentieth century, and full of ghost stories. They had loved it. "C'mon, let's get planning." Nudging her back into the changing room, which looked exactly the same as the one appointed to him, he decidedly pulled the door shut behind him. The bells were much more muffled now, but not completely gone.

"Right," she agreed, picking up her pair of shorts from her cot and pulling them on. "They expect us to go barefoot, it seems."

But Dredd was more interested in what choice of shorts she had been given. Hers were black, though mostly covered in yellow, orange and gold flame patterns, and there was the stylised figure of a charging feline on the front, gleaming in black. They seemed to be too large for her, possibly the same size as his. "Would you swap, by any chance?"

"No," Anderson said firmly.

Dredd sighed. "Just as I feared."

* * *

By the time a horde of black-clad children turned up to escort them into the arena, Dredd had come to a decision. "Listen," he hissed to Anderson as they walked along a corridor leading upwards, towards the clearly distinguishable noises of a large crowd, mingled with the incessant toll of the bells, "when we're out there, do your psychic thing."

"What? On whom?" Anderson hissed back, casting furtive glances from the children ahead of them to those behind them.

"On _me_," Dredd replied from the corner of his mouth.

Of course the girl had nothing better to do than argue. "But sir –"

"I gave you my permission," he snarled, as softly as possible. "Just do it! They want a convincing performance!" A thin little girl with her hair in a braid turned back towards him, and he hastily gave her a grin that probably looked more like grimace.

Anderson heaved a sigh he found rather melodramatic, but at least she stopped protesting. What was the matter with her? He appreciated that she apparently found it wrong to snoop around in his head, but this talent of hers was a very useful one, so she might as well put it to good use, especially if he told her to himself.

The noise grew louder, the corridor brighter. As they neared the exit, the bells – were they real bells at all? – fell silent, making room for roars from hundreds, if not thousands of throats, and then a loud male voice boomed over it all. "Ladies and gentlemen, our fierce heroes are approaching! They're brave, they're fearless, they know no mercy! They've travelled three thousand miles to be here with us! Please welcome tonight's sensation: a pair of real Mega-City One Judges!" The roar that arose after it was deafening.

Dredd grimaced in distaste. He hated being a circus attraction; it was disgraceful, not only to himself, but to the entire Justice Department. But what else should he have done, blast his way through whatever Repentance could throw at the Landraider? The children rushed to form a guard of honour, standing straight with one fist raised in the air, altogether far too much like the formation that ceremony required for the Long Walk, and he and Anderson entered the sandy ground of the mighty black oval that was the arena.

There must be ten thousand people out there, Dredd estimated, gazing up at the ranks rising up high above, maybe even more. Where had they all come from so suddenly? That was half the inhabitants of Repentance! The ranks were interspersed with huge video screens that were already showing him and Anderson walking towards the middle of the oval. Their technology was rather backwards there; grey-clad men with cameras were following them, instead of drones, but the images on the screens looked clear enough, if perhaps a little grainy in places.

There was a ring in the middle, formed by low red blocks, and the stocky man in red waiting by it probably was the referee. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so different from the sparring matches at the Academy. A boy came running with two padded sticks and handed them over to them, panting and beaming.

"At least we're welcome here," Anderson remarked. "Better than a lot of other places we visited."

"Okay," Dredd conceded while above the screens were showing the cheering spectators, "we weren't locked up by some kook and his retarded henchmen or chased by any creatures yet, but at least at Deliverance we weren't wearing such a ridiculous outfit in front of everybody and his dog."

"Speak for yourself," Anderson countered. "You weren't the one wearing hot pants."

"I'm wearing hot pants now," Dredd pointed out.

Anderson actually grinned up at him. "Never thought I'd hear you say that."

"And you'll never hear me say it again, count on it." The referee beckoned to them, and he stepped into the makeshift ring, with Anderson following. Why not build a proper ring, Dredd wondered, what with such fights apparently being the main attraction here? Or was the arena used for something else most of the time? Was it a general sports stadium?

"Ten rounds," the referee said. "Three minutes each." He had a high, somewhat nasal voice. That voice probably was the reason Anderson was grinning once again – or did she still find the concept of him in what resembled hot pants funny? That wasn't a good idea, not when he was he about to hit her anyway. "Sticks come in at round five. You can request a time-out whenever you like, but only once per round and three times altogether. Since you're closely acquainted," – his suddenly appearing leer gave this a rather inappropriate meaning – "I'll say anything goes. The victor is chosen by acclamation in the end, so make sure to please the crowd." Dredd felt tempted to wipe that leer off his face with a well-aimed blow. The man's nose seemed to have been broken once before; maybe someone else had taken issue with his behaviour. "You may begin now. Shake hands, please."

Very well, half an hour of amusing the mob, then they would be done here. Dredd held out his hand to Anderson – was he expected to pull his glove off? – and she took it, then they both slapped their hand to their chest the way they had done it at the Academy, feet together, back straight, head bowed slightly to show respect for the opponent. It's just a round of sparring, he told himself. There's nobody watching. It's just the two of us, training.

Anderson immediately started circling him, moving lightly. To Dredd she looked very much like a cadet remembering to pursue a certain strategy, but uncertain about the execution, and he hoped the audience wouldn't pick up on it. He moved slowly, purposefully keeping his cover down, drawing her. Most likely she would hesitate to target his face straight away, especially since neither of them was wearing a mouth guard. Besides, his cover was open so obviously that it could be nothing but a trap. Since it was just for show, would she –

She did. Her jab was half-hearted, but quick, followed by a cross, which Dredd parried easily and dived in for a low jab at the same time. It produced a soft grunt from her and made her stagger back slightly, but he could have targeted her short ribs, and she must know he could have hit her a lot harder. Her eyebrows jumped together in a scowl, though, and she launched herself at him with a spin kick, which he evaded by a step diagonally forward, catching her off-balance and throwing her down into the sand with an outward foot sweep. He made sure to keep hold of one of her arms long enough to break her fall, though. A cheer went up in the audience; Dredd barely registered it. He purposefully moved out of her reach too slowly, allowing her to catch him with a sickle kick to the side of his knee. Pretending to stagger, he gave her the little time she needed to get back to her feet, which she did with one of those showy kicks from the ground that Dredd had liked at the Academy, but never used on the street. He had half expected it, so he simply took a step backwards.

Anderson returned to circling him, prancing in and out of his reach for an occasional attack. The first round ended with no further incident. As they were waved into opposite corners of the makeshift ring to rest for a minute at the sound of a booming bell mounted on a balcony, the crowd was yelling and whistling. Dredd wasn't sure if it signified approval, but he didn't care much. Nine more rounds to go, and then they would be done here. They had to do something spectacular, something –

_You'll have to duck this round_, Anderson's voice suddenly filled his head. _I'm doing jump kicks._

He nodded imperceptibly to acknowledge her message, masking it by taking a swig from the bottle of water he was offered by one of the children from before. While the heat of the day had largely dissipated by now, the air still was warm and heavy, unstirred by any breeze.

As the bell sounded again across the arena's oval, Anderson started out straight away. Had Instructor Kelly been watching, even he would have been pleased with her, Dredd thought as he evaded her feet by ducking and dodging. She jumped, she spun, and from the way it looked, she was having fun too. Once her heel hit his shoulder – another bruise to add to his collection – and once her toes brushed his hair. There were better ways to counter her attacks, much better ways, but they would be painful for her, at the very least, if not injure her, so he decided on a different course of action. Waiting for that moment when she landed on her feet again, but couldn't start another attack immediately, he tackled her hard, toppling her over – ungracefully, most likely – and bringing her to the ground, though he made sure to break their fall with his arms despite being the one on top. She fidgeted, but pinning her was relatively easy, due to the weight difference. "Did you really have to do that?" she panted as she struggled futilely.

"Yes." He shifted into a holding position, feet firmly apart in the sand to make it hard for her to move him anywhere. "Hey!" For she had just repaid his kindness of not employing his full body weight by wriggling one of her hands free and pulling his hair.

"I – hate – grappling!" she groaned when he pressed down on her ribcage more firmly. But just then the ominous-sounding bell rang out over the noise from the crowd, and he had to let go of her and return to his corner, almost backing into one of the men with a camera as he got back to his feet.

The following round, Dredd allowed Anderson to perform a spectacular hip throw. He was grateful that she announced what she was going to do next in his head before she did it, though he was fairly certain he could have avoided her stomp kick to his stomach either way. Instead he did a take-down from the ground, weaving one leg in between hers and toppling her as he got back to his feet. Rolling over in the sand, Anderson tried to do the same to him, and when he sidestepped her, she followed backwards on all fours. He knew what was coming before she threw up her legs, one into the back of his knees, the other to the front of his waist. The scissors. Possibly every cadet's favourite. As he fell, a great cheer arose from the onlooking crowd.

For two more rounds after that they punched and kicked and on occasion grappled on the ground, always careful not to hurt each other beyond slight bruising. As time wore on, they got a little rougher, though Dredd still was holding back. But apparently it convinced their audience. Every halfway spectacular move was accompanied by a surge of cheers. They like us, Dredd thought, they'll hate the fact that we're not staying.

Perhaps Kratky would try bargaining anew, he suspected as the bell sounded once more. Perhaps the owner of the arena would even refuse to stick to their agreement? Well, if he was that dishonest, Anderson should have picked up on it, but Dredd fully expected the man to be at least a nuisance.

This time the referee handed them the padded sticks they had been given in the very beginning already, which caused the crowd to yell and cheer in anticipation. Dredd did not understand why Kratky had not wanted them to appear in their full gear; surely the spectators would have appreciated that even more, and they would not have had to hold back quite so much. Not that it mattered, in the end; by tomorrow at the latest they would be out of here, and this whole episode would be nothing but an embarrassing footnote to their mission.

They started out with Anderson circling Dredd once again, only this time testing his defences with her stick, usually at long range. Occasionally they would exchange a few blows at medium range, but only for one of them to return to their original range once more. For the next round they stayed in medium range longer and even switched in and out of a few standard Academy drills. Dredd left the disarming until the seventh round, when he sent Anderson's weapon flying out of the makeshift ring in a spectacular arc after a perfectly performed outward snake hand. It wasn't his disarming technique of choice usually – he preferred stripping weapons out of his opponents' grasp – but it was the only one that allowed him to let the stick sail through the air. Anderson had to launch herself at him empty-handed now and keep at least in mid-range to prevent him from using his weapon to his full advantage, and she did so with some conviction. More than once he was grateful that he was wearing his cup, but for the audience's sake he pretended to have actually been hurt, and they applauded Anderson every time. Until now he had felt he would be a solid tip for winner, but all of a sudden he wasn't so sure anymore. Not that it mattered, really. On the contrary, it would be good for Anderson's self-assurance, the girl still didn't have too much of that.

Despite the regular breaks, Dredd was starting to feel the strain by the eighth round. Sweat dripped into his face and covered his torso with a slight sheen, making him coated in sand in places where he had touched the ground, and Anderson wasn't looking much better. She even had sand in her hair, which Dredd found mildly amusing until it occurred to him that there might be sand in his own hair too. They definitely were slowing down. Towards the end of the round, when he had allowed Anderson to disarm him, she attacked him with both sticks, twirling them flawlessly in imitation of one of their double-stick practice drills, but was panting so hard at the same time that he doubted she could utter even a short sentence without choking in the middle. She kept it up, though, until the bell granted them another minute of rest.

During the two final rounds they struggled to do their best once more, and it probably resulted in a handful of bruises. When the bell finally boomed across the sand-strewn oval three times to announce the end of the fight, Dredd lay on his back with Anderson on top of him, trying hard to hold on as he fought to break her hold – not as hard as he could have, but hard enough to give her some trouble. Licking the blood from his split lower lip, he let himself fall back and tried to breathe in and out slowly three times before he got back up. Anderson's chest was heaving just as well, and her dishevelled blond-dyed hair was matted with sweat and sand. A small scratch decorated her left temple, and a bruise was already showing on the side of her jaw. Brushing sand from her black sports bra, she gave him a small smile. "Just two wishes now," she informed him, barely audible over the clamouring of the crowd. "Water and food, then bed."

He nodded. Where exactly were the others seated, Patton, Spikes and the cadets? There was no section that particularly looked like that VIP area they had been promised to be placed in, and he couldn't spot them anywhere in the front rows either. Or were they seated somewhere further back? He wouldn't put it past Kratky to simply give them cheap seats, from the impression the man had made. In that case it would be impossible to make them out among the thousands of spectators. "Any idea where the others are?" he asked Anderson.

She shook her head. "I've been looking for them every single break. But there's just too many people here, I can't find them."

"What a spectacular pair!" the announcer's voice rang through the arena. Dredd would have liked to hit him with his stick, but had no idea where exactly the man was. Was it Kratky himself, by any chance? His wording somewhat sounded like Kratky, but contrary to what some people expected of him, he couldn't recognise an average-sounding voice with certainty after hearing it just a few times. "Those in favour of the male, make yourselves heard!"

"He could have asked your name, at least," Anderson remarked in a half-shout as the audience erupted into a roar. "Makes you sound like a zoo exhibit."

Dredd merely shrugged. He felt the same, but this shameful interlude was as good as over now. Hopefully there would be a chance to shower, in addition to Anderson's wishes being granted.

"And those in favour of the feisty little female, now's your turn!" The roar of the crowd was deafening.

"Feisty," Dredd repeated. Anderson just glared. "Cheer up," he commented, leaning close to her ear so she could hear him, "it sounds like you've won." All it earned him was a punch to the shoulder. This one time he let it go, since he wasn't much of a superior officer at the moment.

"And we have our hero!" The announcer – Kratky or not – sounded far too much like the speakers in those annoying commercials that seemed to be taking up half of most TV channels' air time back at home. "A young girl, trained in the deadliest arts of this world for all her life! Tonight was only play time, but maybe she'll show us some more serious moves another time?" Over the audience's cheers he continued, "And for her companion... our favourite champion has a free slot tomorrow!"

Just as that kid had said in the afternoon afternoon. "He may have one, but I don't," Dredd growled as the children came to escort them back out to thunderous applause. When that creep Kratky turned up again, he'd tell him in no uncertain terms that delusional people belonged in the psycho cubes.

The cool air wafting out of the dark tunnel mouth into the catacombs was very welcome after the arena's heat. A small honour guard of four tall men in stylised armour – odd, that – received them at the entrance. More than eager to shower and change back into his uniform, Dredd readily followed them as they asked the pair of them to. He did not particularly like that only one walked in front of them and three behind, but with a psychic walking beside him, what was there to worry about? Besides, he was just being paranoid.

It took him a moment to realise they were being taken along a different way than they had come previously. "Where are we going?" he asked. "The showers?"

"Yep," one of those behind him replied. "You could say so. You'll see."

"What do you mean," he insisted, frowning, "are there showers or –"

"Watch out!" Anderson cried shrilly, but her warning came too late. Even as he spun around, a sharp pain surged through him. All of a sudden his limbs wouldn't obey him anymore, and he staggered and collapsed, the dim corridor circling around him, at once filled with many, many tiny lights that taunted him, then winked out... one by one... out... out...

* * *

Cold. He was cold. He was lying on a cold floor, and he was shivering.

Opening his eyes slowly, Dredd blinked up into the darkness... and into Anderson's face. His head was resting in her lap, he realised. There was a rough ceiling above, and he had no idea where the dim light was coming from.

"You're awake!" She sounded relieved. "I feared you'd be out cold for much longer."

When Dredd sat up, his head swam, but the mild feeling of nausea he experienced at first dissipated quickly. "Where the blazing fuck are we?" They had attacked him from behind, that was the last thing he remembered. They had attacked him with a stunner, a very strong one.

"Still under the arena, for all I know. How we got here gets a bit blurry." Anderson rubbed her head. Just like him, she was still in her colourful shorts, and in some places sand still stuck to her skin. Her hair was a tangled mess. "I remember being dragged along. I tried, but I honestly can't remember the way."

"Not your fault." Dredd still felt dizzy, just as if his head were filled with jelly. Looking around, he saw that they were inside a roughly square cell, its sides, approximately three metres each, formed by heavy metal grating. There were other cells on either side, apparently empty, though it was hard to tell in the semi-darkness. Was that a figure lying on the floor, two cells away, or just a trick of the light coming from the lone neon cube over what seemed to be a reinforced door some distance away? "I wonder why you didn't catch it earlier on, though. They must have planned this beforehand." Angry. He should be angry. With himself, with her, with those treacherous bastards from Repentance most of all. But his rage felt oddly muffled, as if coming through a filter, or through a thick layer of clothing.

He only noticed he was swaying when Anderson took him by the shoulder and gently pulled him down so his head came to lie in her lap again. "You need to rest. You're still experiencing the after-effects of that stun blast."

"Why," he insisted, "why didn't you...?" His pose was undignified. He shouldn't... he didn't care. "Why didn't you...?"

"See their intentions in their heads from the beginning?" Anderson sighed. "It's all my fault, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I should have read them. But they... especially Kratky, he exuded this, this filthy cloud of greed... I was disgusted, I didn't want to feel him any closer... And the others... I wanted to, to stop... to stop using my powers. It's wrong. I didn't want to. I didn't... I couldn't... I just..." She spluttered into silence.

"Nothing... nothing we can do now." Dredd's tongue felt heavy, and he couldn't follow her reasoning. Angry, yes. He was angry. "Where are the others?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "There's no one there but him."

"Who?" He tried to sit up again, but she firmly held him down by placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Two cells to the right. I'm not exactly sure what he is, some kind of animal, but he's a prisoner, just like us. I was just about to try and make contact when you woke."

"What good is an animal to us?" They had to get out of here, and to find the others! He had no idea how at the moment, but they had to. And then they would make the ones responsible pay, oh yes, they would! And they would free all prisoners that might be kept here, including that animal, but anyone who wasn't part of their mission had low priority right now.

Anderson shrugged. "Maybe I can find something useful in his head."

So all of a sudden she would use her psychic powers again? This didn't make sense, but whatever. Dredd's thoughts were lurching along too clumsily at the moment to engage Anderson in a discussion. He needed to get out of here, somehow... He needed to get out...

Had he just passed out for a moment? It seemed so; he had only just opened his eyes. Anderson sat unmoving, though, one hand still on his shoulder to keep him from getting back up. A faint prickle of irritation went through him. How was he to do anything about their situation when she kept him here? No, wait. He had something mixed up. Or did he? The dark ceiling swam above him, and Anderson's blond hair waved, up and down and around, while the floor was heaving... He squeezed his eyes shut, and the sensation slowly abated. Maybe he should sleep. It would be better when he woke again. It would be better...

When Anderson gently shook him, he jerked awake, disoriented at first. "It's okay," she told him, "you were just twitching, go back to sleep..."

This time he could summon the energy to sit up despite her attempts to keep him lying down. The dizziness had almost gone completely, and the boiling anger was there clearly now. Kidnapping a Judge. It was a life sentence, or even a death sentence, depending on the circumstances. But he had to keep calm, he had to keep himself together. "What did you learn?" he asked. The air was chilly; he could feel the goose bumps cropping up all over his skin, but he refused to wrap his arms around himself.

"I think he's a mutated creature," Anderson replied. "I don't know what. Animals have different minds, but I think I worked out a pretty good way to communicate with this one. Male, a predator, used to lead a pack of seven, including his mate and two... children? Cubs? Anyway, they were looking for a new hunting ground, living is harsh out in the desert. They were captured near the city, using tranq darts, and brought here. The others were all killed in the arena, one after the other. They butchered his mate right before his eyes." Anderson's voice shook, and Dredd thought he could see the gleam of tears in her eyes, but it was too dark to know for certain. "They died fighting human combatants, or captive dinosaurs. He's the only survivor, and he's survived by killing everything they threw at him. He's a fan favourite now, it seems. They have him carry out executions of criminals – he can't help it, he doesn't get any food, so he eats them to survive. He doesn't particularly like the taste of human flesh, though. By now he's got a faint grasp of human body language and speech; he can pick out a couple of words. I think he's highly intelligent. All he wants is to go home, though he doesn't really know where to find that anymore. Part of him just wants to lie down and die. He feels his life has no meaning anymore, now all those he loved are gone." Anderson cleared her throat, probably to regain control of her shaking voice. "How can people be so cruel? He's just an animal, he did no harm to anyone! All he wanted was find a better place to live for his family! And they murdered them all, and now make him kill for their amusement!" She really was crying now. "I'm sorry," she forced out between sobs, "when I touch a mind, I feel all the emotions... I can't just keep them away..."

Placing a hand on her arm in an awkward attempt to comfort her, Dredd peered into the semi-darkness towards their right. Something was moving there, an animal about the size of a human. As if it realised that he was looking at it, it righted itself against the grating, showcasing a lizard-like head with what seemed to be a crest, a relatively slim frame and probably clawed arms, with something hanging from them... Feathers? Were those feathers? Suddenly Dredd had a pretty good idea what kind of animal it was. He strained his eyes to see the creature's feet as it got up fully, pressing against the grating as if in a vain attempt to get to its fellow prisoners. Yes. Just as he had suspected. One claw was a lot larger than the others and held raised above them. "That's not a mutant beast. That's a dinosaur. It's called a deinonychus."

"But... he has feathers."

"Some dinosaurs had feathers. Ask Spikes." Wherever they kept the punk right now, and Patton and the cadets. "They had a whole pack of those in that park Spikes talked about." And this breed had been his and Rico's very favourite; they had loved looking at pictures and videos. "This one may well be the last of his kind." Wrong thing to say, it would only make her sad again. "Does he have a name?" he asked to distract her.

"Yes, but... I have difficulties understanding it, or I'm not sure if I got it right. He doesn't understand it, he only relates a sequence of sounds. It's Little... Little Something. Sounds like Haytees... Haynees... Haydees..."

It all came together, then. "Little Hades," Dredd said. "I'm supposed to fight him tomorrow night."

* * *

_In case you don't believe it: Those shorts designs are existing ones. Simply google "muay thai shorts diamond". The other one you'll find with the key words "Daniken TS 76", first image displayed.  
_

_Signed the petition yet? No? Then what are you waiting for? Sheesh!_


	16. The Coming Dark

_**Author's Note:**__ Here you go, I give you another monster chapter. Despite filming a music video last weekend, I somehow managed to complete this within two weeks. Don't ask me how._  
_Special thanks to the anonymous reviewers, since I couldn't thank them by PM. Yes, reading the comics might prove a bit of a spoiler, though you'll see that I've been changing lot of stuff. (But yes, folks, you'll be getting that great black fan favourite - you know which character I'm referring to. Not to worry. I was wondering whether or not to cut him, but since he has massive support among you guys, he'll make his appearance.)_  
_On the subject of Dredd removing his helmet... I really appreciate the comic readers' concern. But since the convention of the comics isn't that he never removes his helmet, but rather that the reader doesn't get to see his face (not his whole face, at least), it's relatively easy for me with this format of story-telling. You may have noticed how I never describe his facial features in any detail, though..._

* * *

**16. The Coming Dark**

Kratky was sitting on the edge of his desk, legs crossed, wiggling one foot slightly. He was wearing white linen shoes that matched his old-fashioned white suit. "Your brother is a smart boy," he said. "The question is, are _you_?"

Andrin glared at him. "Where are you keeping Thiago?" In truth he could have pinpointed the direction of his twin's location without thinking, but no way would that sleazy bastard hear about his gift.

Kratky clicked his tongue and shook his head in a manner of mock disappointment. "No, no, Andrew, I think your brother is the smart one. Strange, you look so much the same, and yet you're so different."

"It's Andrin," Andrin pointed out coldly. "And you're lying."

Kratky laughed. "Hard to believe, isn't it, that he'd sell you so easily? Your twin brother, but it took so little... Everyone can be bought, Andrew, you need to understand that. It's human nature."

"It's Andrin. An-_dreen_."

The man simply waved it away. "Whatever, Andy. Makes no difference to me. Wanna know why? Because you're just dead meat. I've got two of you baby Judges, and I need only one. I'm sure Little Hades will be quite adequate. You'll give him something to do, a good chase, but he'll get you in the end, oh yes, and it won't be pretty." His leer was practically a caricature, baring a set of perfect white teeth. "He'll get you, and he'll gut you, Andy. He'll make such a marvellous mess of you."

"No, he won't!" Andrin snarled. "Wanna know why? Because you're just a retarded hillbilly fuckwit, and my commander's gonna put a bullet through your fat ugly head, right between the eyes! We'll see who's the marvellous mess, then!" That creep could be grateful that the guards who had brought him in had cuffed him to a ring set in the wall – did Kratky have prisoners brought in here often? – or else he would have pounced on the man and killed him with his bare hands already!

But this way, Kratky only smiled at him, and Andrin wanted to smash his teeth out with a hammer, one by one. "You're a brave boy. Quite a bit of spirit. No, you won't go to the arena, not straight away. There's a business partner who pays a good price for spirited teenage boys. Well, he'd pay even better to have the set, but Thiago is mine, I gave him my word."

"Don't kid yourself," Andrin spat, "you know just as well as I what your word is worth!"

"Ah, you've got me there." Instead of exploding, Kratky started laughing. "Yes, if the price is right, I might really sell the pair of you. Poor little Thiago. Well, he won't find out until it's too late. But I could just rent him out, of course. Rent both of you out. Then it's still the arena for you, Andy."

Andrin snorted. "Why don't you make up your mind first before you blather? You're boring me." It wasn't the cleverest insult he could possibly have come up with, but it would have to do. Calm. Be calm. He could feel Thiago down below, not that far away, no more than a floor, most likely, tense, impatient. Angry, too, but even at a little distance it mixed with his own anger and he could not quite say how much came from his brother and how much was his own.

"Fine, Andy. Back to your cell." His mouth a thin line, Kratky pressed a button on his desk, and immediately the door opened and the familiar pair of muscular men appeared to take him away, gripping him by each arm roughly. On general principle he struggled, though he knew it was pointless. At first it appeared he might really tear himself loose, and promptly Kratky leapt behind the desk and yanked a drawer open, but they got a hold of him once more, and Kratky relaxed again.

A waste of time. The idea had sounded clever enough in his head, provoke Kratky and see what happens, use his special interest in you to your advantage, but it had been fairly pointless. He had learned a few things, but nothing particularly useful.

* * *

Despite his efforts, Dredd was losing track of the time that had passed. It must be morning by now at least, or was it midday? They had taken it in turns to stay awake, but – embarrassingly – due to the stunner's after-effects, he had slumped down right on top of Anderson and gone to sleep within what must have been mere minutes of his watch. He had only woken again from her trying to nudge him off her to reach the bowls of cold porridge and thick blankets someone had dumped into their cage in the meantime. Anderson insisted on wrapping him up in the blanket and would probably have spoon-fed the porridge to him if he hadn't protested. She also finished only half her meal, then slipped the bowl through the thick metal bars forming the side of their cell and pushed it across the more or less even floor. On the other side a three-fingered hand with sharp claws appeared between the bars, and the bowl was returned empty only a short time later. Dredd was impressed; it seemed Anderson could converse with animals on a fairly advanced level to come to this arrangement. Especially getting the creature to give the bowl back. A smart move, that. It meant their captors wouldn't know of an unexpected alliance forming – except if they had cameras watching them, but Dredd couldn't spot any. It also meant that the dinosaur possessed rather well-developed motor skills; maybe this could prove useful later on.

They huddled together under the blanket against the cold and discussed means of escape – in quiet voices, just in case – but there was far too much about this place they did not know. Eventually Anderson fell asleep again with her head on Dredd's shoulder and an arm half around his middle, and he was left to angry brooding. It was his fault as much as hers. He should have been prepared for everything, _everything_, no matter how absurd and unlikely. And he should have explicitly told Anderson to sift through those creeps' thoughts, instead of just assuming that she would do it without having been ordered to do it.

Then again, it made no sense for her not to peer into potential enemies' minds. What was it with her and her sudden qualms, anyway? He would have to have a word with her on the subject. While he appreciated that she meant to stay out of his head, it pretty much was her duty to dig into others'. Squinting down at her, he sighed. Part of him wanted to slap her, while the other part insisted on sitting very still so as not to wake her. And the way she snored gently with her mouth half open was oddly endearing.

Her sleep did not last long, though. All of a sudden the metal door to their dungeon clanged open, and in marched the men in the familiar fake armour, pushing another man ahead of them, a tall, strong-looking man, but he was staggering, and his clothes were torn and stained with blood, his curly hair matted with blood and sand. At the entrance he struggled briefly, most likely when he saw the cells, but one of the guards jabbed a short baton into his ribs, there was a sizzling sound and flash of cyan blue, and the man howled in pain and collapsed against the doorframe. More guards were dragging two barely conscious men along, both of them in a similar state as the other prisoner.

"Got company," the guard with the stunner announced, banging his device against the bars of their cage. "How you like company?" Dredd just gave him a flat stare, and the man laughed and spat. He had a narrow, sun-dark face and a cleft chin; Dredd committed his features to memory.

The three men were roughly thrown into the cell on their left. One of the guards tossed in a few water bottles after them, hitting one of the weakly moving ones in the head – which produced a gale of laughter from the others – then hurled one at Dredd, who caught it before it could hit Anderson. The second bottle escaped his grasp and hit the wall. In the meantime, another one went over to the other side, where Little Hades was kept, and kicked the bars. "Hey there, ugly shit, wake up! Yeah, that's right, raise your ugly head! Remember this, fucker?" Drawing a stun baton from his pocket, he let it sizzle and spark through the cage door. From the shadows at the back of the cell came a dangerous hiss, and somehow Dredd was pretty certain that the dinosaur had just memorised the offending guard just like he had done it himself with another one moments before. Anderson wanted to jump up, but Dredd caught her arm just in time. If they were to draw any advantage from having that primeval predator on their side, they could not get involved right now, especially not when no real harm had been done.

Some of the guards eyed them for a bit, sneering, but they were careful not to come too close, especially when Dredd stood up. He had not expected to be able to grab one of their weapons, but still, it had been worth a try. "Oooh, the big bad Judge! Who are you, without your helmet?" one of the guards taunted him, keeping a safe distance.

"Come in here and I'll show you." This approach had little chance of success just as well, yet he would try anything, no matter how small the chance.

"Fine," the man said, a tall, but thin individual with a shaved head, "Egon, give me a lance –"

"No," the one who had threatened Little Hades with his stunner interrupted sharply. "The prisoners ain't supposed to be fighting except in the arena. Now c'mon, get your ass outta here!" He gestured, and the guards filed out, eight of them altogether, then the door was slammed shut behind them once again.

"Any readings?" Dredd asked Anderson softly as soon as they were gone.

Anderson was sitting with her arms around her knees, the blanket still loosely draped around her shoulders. "At least some of them will be working tonight," she replied promptly, equally softly. "They'll have to get Little Hades in a larger group, not sure how many, and they're not looking forward to that. Then they'll return for you."

"Too bad," Dredd muttered, sitting back down beside her with a glance at the three men moving feebly and groaning in the neighbouring cell. He had been wondering whether there was a chance to overpower at least one of the guards, get his stunner and then set the dinosaur free.

"Not at all," Anderson disagreed. "I'll create a diversion as soon as he's out, he deals with the rest of them except one, and that one I'll force to unlock our door."

Dredd briefly considered this plan. It all depended on whether Anderson's mind control extended as far as she needed it to, but he tended to trusting her abilities. "I like it," he consented after a short pause. "Does your feathery friend agree?"

"I'll talk to him, but he seemed willing enough to try something the last time we spoke, while you were asleep. He feels reckless to me. Nothing to lose."

Nodding to himself, Dredd peered into the gloom towards their right. A deinonychus would make a formidable opponent for more than one man, beyond doubt, but would he really do what Anderson wanted him to do? The bowl transfer had worked well enough, though, so it definitely was worth a try.

In the cell on the other side one of the men, the one who had still been walking when he was brought in, sat up with some difficulty. Steadying himself with one hand against the bars between their cells, he brushed his matted curls out of his face and squinted at his new neighbours. "What did you two do to get maximum security?" he asked after a little while, in the slightly blurred accent Dredd recognised as that of Repentance.

Maximum security? Interesting. That meant that there were several other prisoners elsewhere. "No idea. They just brought us here last night." Should he mention that they were Judges? One of the guards had done so already, anyway, so he might as well.

Their fellow prisoner took the decision from him, though. "Right, you're the Judges, aren't you? Saw you on the screen yesterday, while I waited for my own fight. Flawless technique. Can't believe you really let the girl win, though."

Idiot. "I didn't," Dredd growled. "Weren't you watching?"

"But..." The man visibly grew uncertain, yet still continued, "But she's a girl. Surely you held back?"

If not for the bars between them, Dredd might have slapped him for his sheer stupidity. "Yes, I held back. So did she."

Apparently the other prisoner had gotten the message, though he still looked somewhat incredulous. "Name's Robur," he introduced himself instead. "Robur Tanner. Used to work here, before that swine Kratky took over."

Dredd had been about to question him on where the other captives were kept and how many there were, but this piece of information got his attention. "You're saying things used to be different here?"

"Yeah." The man nodded his curly head, then winced and pressed a hand to a partially blood-crusted temple briefly. "I mean, we had the games and all. Even animal-baiting. But then Kratky came along" – he practically spat the name – "and suggested we do executions as fights to the death. It was a great success, everybody came... They had them fight each other, or fight dinosaurs... for a while they had one of those horned monsters, until they caught those raptor things and set them on it. Then they fought the raptor things, or sometimes they didn't. Sometimes they just... they ran, and the monsters ran after them, in a big obstacle course they built. Always caught them in the end." He shook his head in disgust, his lips compressed to a tight line. "Those who wanted to put a stop to it, we were too few. All they saw was the money they made. Paid fat taxes too, so the mayor's not getting involved, oh no. Wouldn't surprise me if she isn't cashing a little something on the side." Tanner gave a hiss not unlike the dinosaur's before he continued, "So those who opposed Kratky, he had us thrown in the vaults and compete, one after the other. Me and another, we're the last ones left. But he's dying tonight, I'm sure he is. He's facing a big mutant beastie tonight, that bear thing, or the one with the antlers, I don't know. It's my turn tomorrow." Resigned, he slumped against the bars. "And no one left to stop Kratky."

"I wouldn't give up just yet if I were you," Anderson put in quietly. "They're in for a surprise tonight when they come to get Little Hades."

She shouldn't have mentioned the name, Dredd saw. Tanner flinched violently and recoiled from the bars, just as if the dinosaur's clawed hands could reach him where he was. "That... that monster..."

"He's an animal, not a monster," Dredd corrected him. He did not know why, probably because it mattered to Anderson. To be honest, it had begun to matter to him too, just a little. "You were thrown in the vaults, you say? Is that somewhere else? And why are you here now?"

Tanner nodded and steadied himself against the bars once more; he was swaying even while sitting. "The vaults are one level up, that's where they keep those meant to eventually die in the arena – the gladiators, they call us. Criminals, mostly, but also a few people like me, people who just opposed those filthy bastards. We tried to break free, me and the others" – he gestured to his two semi-conscious companions – "we took out two before they overpowered us. Now we're in here, which is a certain death sentence." He sounded resigned, but his voice was surprisingly firm. He might be a fool to grossly underestimate Anderson like that, but he certainly wasn't a coward. "If you do well enough, there's a chance to survive the vault and one day walk out a rich man, but down here, you only have days left. Hours, sometimes." He gingerly rubbed blood from his split lip. "Thought I could be one of the lucky ones, I could make it... but we were too rash. We should have waited. Still, there's no way that swine Kratky would have let me walk free, ever." His hand clenched around the metal bar he was holding on to. "Maybe it's good it's finally over for me."

It seemed Anderson was about to say something, probably words of encouragement, but there was a more pressing question still left unasked. "Have you by any chance seen four new prisoners? Must have come in last night. Two teenage boys, twins, small, hair cut very short, and two men, both around average height and with black hair, one with a dark complexion, the other pale, thin and with his hair styled in spikes?"

Tanner blinked; he probably was trying to remember. "I've seen _one_ kid," he said at last. He coughed, spat – it suspiciously looked like blood to Dredd, but he couldn't say for sure in the semi-darkness – then continued, "They brought in a kid with really short hair, yeah. And I think there was a man, but I didn't really pay him much attention. Could have had a dark face. Nothing special about his hair, that much I'm sure about. I mostly noticed the kid, thought he had to be a bad one to be in here at his age. They never brought in a kid before."

"Just one boy?" Dredd inquired. "Are you sure? And just one man?"

"Absolutely," Tanner confirmed, this time without a pause. "I was locked up near the entrance, in one of those cells with bars instead of a proper door. Just those two."

"Are there any other holding facilities?" Anderson chimed in.

Tanner shook his curly head. "No, not that I know of, apart from the pit for the big beasts, and that one's full, or else they'd probably keep Little Hades there too. But they could use empty office rooms to lock someone up, for all I know. They've done it before on occasion. Though why... it makes little sense. Are you sure they're still alive?"

Of course the possibility had occurred to Dredd, somewhere at the back of his mind, but hearing it voiced as bluntly as that still was a blow to the gut. No, he could not be sure. He had last seen the others some time before their performance at the arena had started. Anything could have happened between then and now.

"When we have one twin, we can locate the other," Anderson supplied quietly. "He'll be able to at a distance of up to ten floors inbetween. The real problem will be finding Spikes. If we don't act fast, once we've started they might move him to a secure place to gain leverage on us."

Dredd nodded to that. Good thinking. She might have almost failed the Academy, but she displayed signs of an able Judge. Maybe their criteria for selecting future Judges needed a reform? "I do intend to move fast," he agreed grimly. "That lot over there should have recovered by tonight. We're gonna need them."

* * *

When a tall, fat man suddenly unlocked the door of the closet in which he and Spikes were kept, Thiago already had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "You, with me," the fat man commanded, pointing a stubby finger at him. Spikes half rose from his perch on the moth-eaten old couch crammed into the closet – the concept of moths had been new to Thiago – but there was nothing he could do. The fat man carried a stun baton in his other hand.

Thiago remembered the way to Kratky's office from his visit the night before, and he chose to walk with his head held high rather than be dragged. All the same, the fat man regularly gave him a nudge between the shoulder blades. "Stop pushing me!" Thiago complained, but his guard did not react at all.

When they reached the office, the fat man rapped his knuckles against the door – it looked like genuine wood, which must be a rarity here – then pushed the handle and entered, pulling Thiago along by his sleeve.

Like the previous time Thiago had been in this place, Kratky was sitting at his desk, the scarlet strand of hair hanging into his forehead, studying a datapad before him. When he raised his head, the smile appeared very suddenly, as if on command. "Ah, my smart little guest. So nice to see you again. Your twin brother really is quite unreasonable, did you know that?"

Unreasonable? Thiago could have laughed out loud. "That's why I'm cutting him loose."

This time Kratky's smile almost looked genuine, all the way to the little lines beside his dark eyes. "You're a young man after my own kind, Thiago. I like that. The only problem is, there is only one of me, and I don't need any others. Unless you can convince me otherwise?"

"We had an agreement, sir," Thiago reminded him, doing his best to keep his voice civil.

"That we had, and we still have it. I'm just, shall we say, modifying it a little bit." Kratky was grinning broadly now, and Thiago felt the strong urge to punch him in the face. Calm, be calm! It was a lot harder than he had thought it would be. "You see, I have this friend. He owns an establishment of a certain kind... Anyway, he hasn't had a pair of twin boys in years, and he's offered me a _huge_ sum."

"No!" Thiago said before he could stop himself. "No way in hell!" This was not going the way he had intended it to go.

Making a tsking sound between his teeth, Kratky shook his head in an exaggerated display of disappointment. "Really, Thiago, I thought you were smarter than that. You should know you're not in a good position to bargain. The only reason you're here is because I like you, because I suspected straight away that there was something about you two, or else you wouldn't have been on that mission of yours. Actual Mega-City cadets... Now listen. I'm offering you a cut of the profit. You do the gig, you get paid, then we return to your original idea and make you a little star. As for your brother, we'll either rent him out to my friend, or sell him if the money's right, but I'd rather have him back. Because I've had an idea, see. A _beautiful_ idea." Kratky paused long enough to rise from his seat and walk around the desk to confront Thiago directly. "We're establishing you as our young hero. Then we let your brother face Little Hades. He won't survive that. Oh, he has spirit, and he'll fight bravely, no doubt, but he will die, like they all do. And then..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Then comes your revenge! We'll build it up over three or four months, until you're ready for the match. Little Hades will have earned me enough by then, we'll drug him and make sure you win that one. Revenge on the monster, revenge for your fallen brother! The arena will be packed that night! And you'll be a fan favourite after that. Thiago the Wonder Boy. I can see the banners already. I'm offering you a share of, say, fifteen percent, twenty after that big fight, maybe twenty-five. How would you like that, Thiago, my boy?"

Thiago forced a grin to appear on his features. "Sounds good enough to me. Just one more thing. When you rent out my brother, I want a cut of that."

"You want a cut..." Kratky burst out laughing, slapping his thighs. "Listen to the boy! You want a cut of that! I like you, Thiago! I like you more and more! Maybe you'll be a businessman one day."

"Maybe I will," Thiago agreed. No, I'll be a Judge, and _you_ will be dead!

"Good." Kratky's smile thinned once again, but did not fade entirely. It was like a mask glued onto his features, Thiago felt, a mask wearing a grotesque grimace. "But you're not a star yet, Thiago. You'll first have to earn me some money. You know what, why don't you take your clothes off and let me take a look at you?" The guard behind Thiago chuckled appreciatively, but fell silent at once at a look from Kratky.

Thiago swallowed and struggled to keep his face smooth. He was not prepared for this situation. "Send him out, then," he came up with, nodding towards the fat man.

"Fine. You'll have to do a bit more, though, in that case. And if you fail to please, he comes back in." When Thiago nodded, Kratky dismissively gestured to the guard. "You heard him. Out."

Once again Thiago made himself grin. "I hope the door's soundproof." Not particularly, he feared. But he would have to be quick anyway. "Want me to put on a show?" It would buy him time.

Kratky raised one eyebrow while the other formed a diagonal line; under different circumstances Thiago's priority would have been to find a mirror and try out this feat himself. "_Very_ much." The leer that stole onto his face probably wasn't a fake one at all. "Show me what you've got, boy."

As Thiago reached for the buttons of his short-sleeved shirt, his fingers trembled, despite his effort to control them. He needed to think of something, and fast. Attempting to cast down his eyes coyly – whatever that meant exactly, he was not sure, except that it apparently was considered attractive – he let his gaze flit across the office at the same time. A bookshelf with a handful of real books, none large enough to harm anyone with them. A closed cupboard, its contents impossible to determine. The large framed picture of two men fighting each other with swords was out of reach. Objects on the desk... Datapad – too light to use as a weapon, though he might try if there was nothing else. Water jug – maybe, but it stood out of reach. Large plastic figure of a swordsman – possibly, though it did not look like something one could grip well enough to strike with it. Empty lunch tray – probably not, except to throw the plate; the mug looked too light to effectively hit anyone with it. What to do? By now all the buttons were open. How did one take a shirt off in an alluring manner? Thiago let it glide off his shoulders. Could he subdue Kratky with his empty hands? Possibly. He did not know if the man had any fighting skills. There definitely was nothing to bind him with, so he had to incapacitate him. And how exactly to blackmail his henchmen? How to best tell them his demands while threatening their master? He wished Andrin were there with him. Or better yet, Dredd or Anderson.

"Not much of a showman, boy, are you?" Reaching out, Kratky grabbed him by the arm and pulled him towards him, making him stumble against him. Instinctively Thiago resisted, and Kratky pulled him closer. Thiago smelled a whiff of what most likely was aftershave; at least Dredd smelled similar when he was freshly shaved, but less... flowery. He tilted up Thiago's chin. "Ah yes, you may struggle. I like it when they struggle." His grip was strong, stronger than Thiago had expected. Pushing him against his desk, he started unbuckling his shorts.

Stay calm! Stay calm! Thiago fidgeted, but his hips were pressed against the desk; the only escape was forward. He craned his neck to search the desk, but there was nothing overly useful, nothing... Kratky yanked down his zipper and pulled his backside away from the desk briefly to let his shorts slide down his legs, where they pooled around his ankles; Thiago wished he had taken the tighter-fitting blue ones and left those loose black ones to Andrin, he wouldn't have been exposed so easily then. What to do? He needed something, anything...

It was then that a glint from beneath the edge of the empty plate caught his eye, and just as Kratky chuckled to himself and grabbed hold of Thiago's underpants, Thiago hastily fumbled for it with his left hand, grabbed hold of it –

Time seemed to go by more slowly, all of a sudden, or rather stop and move forward in jerking motions. The knife, arcing through the air – Kratky's arm coming up, two fingers on his hand crooked, the others outstretched – resistance as the knife plunged into the side of his neck – his hand slipped, lost its hold – blood on his fingers – Kratky's features contorted grotesquely, his mouth wide open, showing one molar of gold –

No, don't cry out, don't cry out now! Silence him! Thiago's fingers sought the knife again, slipped, grasped the hilt. They were on the floor now. When had they fallen? The knife was in his right hand now, his left around Kratky's throat, blood spurting out from between his fingers unceasingly. Kratky was howling, gurgling, clawing at Thiago's face. Please don't hear him, please let nobody hear him! Thiago stabbed him again, pushing the man's chin up and thrusting the blade right into the throat. The sound it made as it slid in, that ugly rasp, put his teeth on edge. Be silent, be silent and die! Again he stabbed him, again, then lost hold of the slippery knife hilt once more. Kratky violently convulsed beneath him, throwing him off balance. His shoulder hit the carpeted floor, and he lay there, gasping for breath as the room spun around him, and like through a tunnel he saw the light fade from Kratky's eyes. The man gurgled, choked and then lay still, two rivulets of blood running from his mouth and dripping onto the floor, drip, drip, eventually joining into one, drip, drip, drip...

He's dead. Dead. It's over.

With some difficulty Thiago pushed himself up to his elbows. The room swam, and he vomited up his meagre breakfast. Even when his stomach was empty already, it kept trying to bring up more, and for what seemed like an hour to him he choked over an ugly puddle of vomit, until the contractions finally subsided. Drawing a shaky breath, Thiago crawled backwards.

There were tears leaking from his eyes, he realised. He raised a hand to wipe them away, but it was smeared with blood, so he wiped his face on his upper arm instead, leaving traces of blood on it too. Did he have blood on his face, then? It felt wet, but he was reluctant to touch it with his dirty hands. There were tiny red droplets on his chest and stomach. His left shoulder had blood all over it, a rivulet running down over his torso.

His underpants were pulled down to the middle of his thighs, he noticed, and there were a few spatters of blood even there. Ashamed, he pulled them back up. Normally being naked did not bother him much; he was used to showering with the other boys. But this time he felt ashamed, befouled, exposed before the world. He's dead, he reminded himself as he put his shorts back on. Kratky is dead. He can't harm you anymore.

Getting to his feet shakily, he made himself look at the body again. Kratky lay half on his side, empty eyes gazing to the place where Thiago had fallen, but still the large, gaping wound in his neck was clearly visible, torn open as if by a feral creature. Involuntarily Thiago wrapped his arms around himself to stop them from shaking. There was blood all around him, soaking the carpet, even staining the desk and one wall. So much blood.

I had every right to kill him, Thiago reminded himself. He wanted to enslave and kill us all, and he was about to rape me.

Rape. There it was, the thing he had tried not to think about. They had introduced him to the concept at the Academy of Law, but never had it had any real meaning to him, just the name of a crime. Now it felt like an oily film covering his skin. He shook himself, but it would not go away. "I hate you!" Thiago snarled at the dead body. "You goddamn sick fucker, I hate you!" Stepping over him, he turned around once more to kick him, hard. "I hope you suffered!" Another kick. "I would never, _never_ betray my brother! _Both_ of my brothers! And the others! _Never_!" He should have told Kratky while the owner of the arena was still alive, told him as he was thrashing on the carpet. Thiago lifted his foot to deliver one more kick –

Andrin. The attempt at contact was coming through dimly, but it felt like an anchor to steady him, not an embrace exactly, but the closest thing to it. How much had Andrin felt? Was he currently experiencing the same as him? _I'm fine_, Thiago assured his twin. _I'm not hurt. He's dead._

Andrin was hard to understand over the distance; he seemed to be down in the dungeons somewhere, like Kratky had claimed when he had had Thiago brought to him for the first time. It took a lot of concentration to make out words at all. _What now?_

What now? Thiago drew a deep breath and blew it out again slowly. What now? He had no idea. Take care of the guard probably still waiting outside? Sooner or later that fat man would come in to check anyway, he assumed, so either way he would have to kill him. But right now the very concept of killing sickened him. Pull yourself together, you weak little cry-baby, he furiously admonished himself. You want to be a Judge, don't you? Have you ever seen Dredd fretting over killing some perp? But his throat still felt constricted at the idea, and his chest felt tight too, like enmeshed in a web of steel.

_Check for weapons_, Andrin advised. _He's got a gun or something in his desk somewhere._

Weapons. Of course. Maybe he really should take a moment to collect himself. But his twin brother and the others still were prisoners, and he needed to get them out as soon as possible. Following Andrin's instruction, he pulled all drawers open, leaving bloody fingerprints at the handles. Two more datapads, cables, storage devices, some local currency – Thiago hesitated, then pocketed the coins and plastic tokens, just in case –, images printed out on a thin plastic foil, showing fighters in various gear... Ah, there. It really was a gun, a relatively small pistol and looking oddly unfamiliar... A lasgun. This was an actual lasgun. Kratky must really have made a lot of money with this arena.

There were two spare power cells at the back of the drawer, fully charged, according to the control lamp, and a matching charging device. This time Thiago was glad that he had picked the loose-fitting shorts, since they had spacious side pockets. Stuffing the power cells into one and the charger into the other, he picked up the small laser weapon. It was heavier than it looked. _I'm coming for you_, he told his brother. There was a mix of hope and concern he could faintly sense in reply.

Stepping over the fallen body, he did not want to look at it, but the gaping wound irresistibly drew his eyes. Shuddering slightly, he made himself look away once more. He cleaned his hands and arms on the carpet as far as possible, utilising what water was left in the jug, and tried to wipe the blood from his face, then picked his shirt up from the floor. First Spikes, then down to rescue the others. Patton was with Andrin, that much he knew, but as for Dredd and Anderson...

No, fretting was of no use right now. He had to focus on what lay immediately ahead. Thiago tried to breathe evenly, but he still felt his heart hammering wildly in his chest. He was scared, he had to admit to himself, as scared as he had never been before.

_You can do it._ It was Andrin's voice, coming through faintly, but it was there.

_I can do it._ Steeling himself and taking one more deep breath, Thiago slowly opened the door to peer out into the corridor.

* * *

Dark fog was drifting across charred ruins, broken, blackened towers of city blocks rearing up into the grey, lifeless air. Static crackled weakly between empty window frames, reflected from shards of broken glass that fell like rain. Nothing was left alive in this grey desert, this gigantic tomb of a civilisation that had torn itself apart. Nothing except...

There was no doubt that he was Dredd, although his uniform was stained with blood and dust, and he could not possibly have shaved in a week or more. He carried a bloody sword over his shoulder, and his gloved left hand clutched several severed heads by the hair, trailing a thin line of blood dripping from the necks as he went. He marched like a machine, his back straight, his head held high, and yet there were tears rolling down his cheeks from beneath his tinted visor, unceasingly.

Anderson jerked awake, and the words rang in her head, permeated every corner of her awareness: _The darkness is coming_.

Beside her, Dredd was breathing evenly. She had not intended to fall asleep again, she remembered, she had wanted to let him sleep and stay awake, but apparently she had been just as tired as he must be. Luckily she had not woken him, this way she could simply lie beside him under their woollen blanket and allow her breath to steady itself without having to explain about having yet another nightmare. Those dreams must have a meaning, but what? Danger, catastrophe, death, and not just for her, for the whole city, perhaps the whole world. And it seemed there was nothing she could do about it.

She could sense Little Hades stirring in his cell without seeing him. His mind welcomed her touch. He was hungry, though her having shared her breakfast made it less than usual, and there was an underlying sense of rage that sharpened his predator mind into the feeling of a blade, but there was something new too, a touch of... gentleness, aimed towards her. He was beginning to trust her. Anderson sent a feeling of soothing warmth through the connection, and he mentally answered with something akin to a purr. And... could it be? Or was she mistaken? There were tendrils, thin as sticky threads, crawling over her mind as if stroking. She watched in wonder as one poked its way in; she could have stopped it easily, but she didn't.

At once the connection became a lot clearer. It almost felt like if Dredd were to open his eyes now, he would see a bright, living ribbon woven of thin threads stretching between them. Now she sensed his hunger as if it were her own, his rage added to her own feeling of anger, but she also was aware of the metal bars beneath his clawed hands – was it correct to think of them as hands? At least to him they seemed to be the same as her own hands were to her –, of the confined space that bothered him, of the scents he caught on the cool, slightly damp air, sweat, urine, blood, and others she could not identify, and of an underlying feeling of sadness, locked away in a deeper region of his mind. There was the feeling of having a tail, and it was decidedly odd to her, while to him... She sensed curiosity from him, wonder, what probably was the same sense of oddity she had just experienced. He was exploring her mind carefully, just like she was exploring his, not pushing forward, just probing gently.

How could she have missed this the first time she had touched his mind? It was so obvious that he was, at least to some degree, a psychic like her. Maybe this ability had helped him to stay alive this long – or was it a gift all of his kind shared? It certainly had made it easier for him to pick out a few words of human speech during his captivity.

When he actively addressed her, it still startled her. He spoke in distinct images that were easy enough to translate. _I have seen it. The Cold World. The Coming Dark. The Shadow on the Sun._

He must have found the residue of her nightmare, still vivid and fresh in her mind. Found it, and recognised it. _Do you dream?_ She translated it into an image of him sleeping, with pictures over his head, hoping he would understand.

After a moment's pause he replied. _Sleep-sight_, or _seeing in sleep_, was the closest translation that came to mind. He opened himself to her, offering what must be a memory, and as she touched it, she found herself enshrouded in drifting black fog that drowned out the sun, the wind howling in a cold desert of grey. There seemed to be voices on the wind, hissing, shrieking, chilling her to the bone, just as they had done to him. There was no city, and there were no figures, familiar or otherwise, but nonetheless this vision seemed far too similar to her own for comfort.

Morris had seen it too, the great darkness ahead. It was coming. It was coming for her... and maybe for the rest of the world.

But Morris had also said that she could win this.

It seemed Little Hades was trying to ask her a question, though something completely unrelated – did he really accept this nightmare's foretelling as a simple fact and did not let it bother him further? Did he even understand the concept of a prophetic dream? Or was she being foolish, and this wasn't a prophetic dream at all?

She readily allowed herself to be distracted by her attempt at a mental conversation with a dinosaur, crazy as this still seemed to her. He wanted to know something about Dredd, in relation to her, if he was... Oh. Hopefully he did not catch her embarrassment – if he had any concept of embarrassment, that was. He was assuming Dredd was her, for lack of a better term, mate.

_Pack leader_, she came up with, trying to illustrate it as well as she could. He must understand that, after all it seemed that he had led a pack of his own once.

Just then Dredd rolled over beside her with a soft grunt and opened his eyes. Muttering a curse, he sat up and kicked back the blanket. "Pretty sure they drugged us," he stated.

Anderson gave him a frown as the connection dissolved. "What do you mean, drugged?"

"In the food they gave us yesterday. Slow-working drug. Makes you tired for a while. It's used in the penitentiary system sometimes."

Or maybe you're just plain tired, Anderson thought, but she sensed the usual dark mood from him – small surprise, locked up in here in nothing but those ridiculous shorts – and did not want to argue. At least sleeping made the time go by faster. How long until the evening, until a chance at escape?

There was a little more movement in the neighbouring cell on their other side, too. Tanner was taking care of the other two, one of them pale with long hair, the other at least partially of African descent, but neither of them was entirely back to consciousness yet, so she and Dredd had not slept for long probably.

Maybe she had better return her attention to Little Hades, she decided. After all, by tonight she had better be able to communicate with him without too much difficulty. It might yet prove vital that she could.

* * *

Andrin jumped to his feet abruptly from a state halfway between sleeping and waking. Patton was still lying motionlessly on his cot on the other side of the narrow cell, his face turned towards the concrete wall; Andrin shook him by the arm. "Wake up! They're coming for us!"

The engineer blinked up at him drowsily. "What? Who?"

"My brother!" Andrin wanted to leap up to the low ceiling. "With Spikes! They're close, they'll be here soon!"

At once Patton sat up and pulled his uniform jacket back on as he, too, rose to his feet. At first Andrin had not been sure if Patton really believed that he could feel where Thiago was unless they were too far apart, but apparently he did. "I sure hope they carry enough firepower," the bronze-skinned engineer muttered.

Andrin concentrated. "Guess so." What was that thing Thiago was carrying, that odd little gun? The answer came immediately, as his twin used it on a guard aiming his stun baton at them. "Whoa! Lasgun! How cool is that?"

The familiar beep from the door told them a card had been swiped over the reader by the lock, and then the door was pushed open firmly, revealing Thiago and Spikes on the threshold. Spikes's hairstyle was in wild disarray, and he looked paler than usual, but he was wearing a lopsided grin and carrying a club over his shoulder. Thiago's clothing was stained with blood, and there were smears on his face. He, too, was grinning, beaming even as their eyes met, but Andrin could tell what he had been through and what he wasn't showing. "What took you so long?" he joked before he pulled his twin into a tight hug. _It's okay, baby brother, I'm with you now._

_I'm so scared_, Thiago answered, squeezing him fiercely. _I killed eight guards, mostly from behind. I'm down on my second power cell, and I can't possibly recharge them anywhere here._ But Andrin could read that part of his brother wished the power cells were all empty so he would not have to shoot any more people in the back, and that another part was ashamed for this weakness.

_You give me that thing_, Andrin decided. _I'll do it from now on. They were all perps, anyway. Probably killed people themselves. You did grand, you know that? I'm so totally proud of you._

Thiago gave him another tight squeeze before he let go, then handed him the small lasgun without any further discussion and emptied out his pockets. Patton got a stun baton, and he kept two for himself. He also handed Andrin one more power cell and a large knife. "Let's go," he said, and only Andrin knew that this was a lot harder for him than it sounded.

"Any idea where the others are?" Patton asked as they left the cell.

"We'll find out in a moment, hopefully." Heading straight to the next cell door, Spikes used the card he must have taken from a dead guard to open it. "I'm sure one of the folks in here might know."

* * *

Eventually two guards returned with plastic bowls of food, flat bread, dried meat and a kind of vegetable stew that looked just as bland as it tasted. Dredd asked them what time it was, and, as he had expected, they refused to answer, but he managed a glance at one's watch. Half past three in the afternoon. There still was a long wait ahead until the guards would come for them.

As soon as the guards were gone, Dredd tossed the lumps of dried meat in his bowl over to Little Hades. Despite the fact that Anderson seemed to trust the dinosaur, he still preferred to have a predator turned loose at his side who wasn't quite so hungry anymore. Some bits landed in the deinonychus's own cell, others bounced off the bars, but in most cases a clawed hand was able to snake through the bars and retrieve them. Little Hades showed remarkable dexterity with those three long fingers. Occasionally the line of relatively large feathers decorating the underside of his arms like a fringe on an old-fashioned biker jacket would get stuck in the bars, which usually resulted in a hiss, but he always managed to pull the arm clear again with little to no damage to the feathers, if Dredd saw it correctly. What an odd creature, he thought, watching him, but he tended to agree with Anderson by now, Little Hades clearly was a smart animal and might prove useful.

"I don't think he'll spare you just because of that," Tanner commented from the cell on the other side.

"Wait and see," Dredd simply replied. It annoyed him when people had so little confidence in Anderson.

It was then when he thought he heard gunshots outside. He tensed, listening. Little Hades had reared up against the door to his cage, Dredd noticed, and now was leaning on the bars, narrow crested head cocked to one side, in a pose of concentration. Tanner seemed to have heard it too, he was sitting up very straight, and his dark-skinned companion, a man called something like Niall apparently, sat up too. "What's going on?" Dredd whispered to Anderson.

She closed her eyes, like so often when she was focused on her mental abilities. When she opened them again, a broad smile had appeared on her face. Leaning close to him, she spoke into his ear. "It's chaos out there! Kratky's dead, and most of the prisoners are loose. They're not sure who's giving orders now, but someone told them to double the guard on that door." She vaguely gestured with her hand. "Seems there's lots of rumours flying around, but most seem to agree that our friends started it. I think they're trying to step down hard on the prisoner riot upstairs, but it looks like there's several small groups of prisoners now, and mostly armed."

Good news, but at the same time bad news. "We need to get out of here _now_," Dredd decided. "Can't have a tek and two cadets fighting on their own, and Spikes... the biggest danger he poses with a gun is to his own foot. Can you do any of your mind tricks? Distracted as they are, maybe..."

He fell silent when Anderson raised a hand. "It's difficult but... I think... yes, just a moment..." Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips moving slightly. Dredd watched her intently, and by now Tanner was staring at her too. If the man had at least half a brain, he must suspect something of her abilities already; they had been discreet about it, but not exactly kept it quiet. Nothing but a crouching shape in the shadows, Little Hades stayed very still.

At last, after at least two minutes, Anderson visibly relaxed and opened her eyes again with a little smile. "It's done. I planted a suggestion in a few heads, and they liked it. They'll be here for reinforcement in a moment." Bending, she picked up her two protective discs, which she had removed earlier on for reasons of comfort, and inserted them back into her bra.

"Reinforcement?" Dredd repeated quietly. Good idea, that; where had he put his cup?

Anderson pointed her thumb over to the right. "Him."

"The original plan, then." Just executed a little earlier, and possibly with more guards on hand. At last they would be getting out of here. As he tensely waited in the by now so familiar semi-darkness, Dredd wondered how Kratky had died, but this question could wait. There were other priorities for Anderson's mental powers by now. She must already be conversing with Little Hades, for the dinosaur was looking their way now; Dredd could see his crested head, snout half open baring an unpleasant lot of sharp teeth, eyes glinting dimly in the weak light coming from the door. There was the soft rustle of feathers as he righted himself, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his tormentors.

The door swung open just as Dredd was done fumbling the cup back into the holding pocket of his underpants, and the sudden light flooding in was blinding before the door was pulled shut again with a loud clang. Dredd blinked at the six men with stunners and clubs marching straight for the dinosaur's cage door. "Back!" one of them bellowed, stunner raised, and Little Hades really retreated, putting on a show of meekness. Inserting an old-fashioned key into a lock, one guard opened the door while two others picked up lances and a chain from a holding rack at the side. The door opened slowly. "Out!" one of the men snarled. "Down!"

And then it happened. The guard directly behind the one in front, a tall, hulking figure, fired his stunner into his companion's back, then spun around and attacked those behind him. Yells and curses rang through the dungeon, drowning out the hiss of the weapons. One of the other guards struck at the attacker with his club, successfully disarming him and probably doing serious damage to his hand in the process. And into the chaos Little Hades leapt with deadly grace, his clawed legs catching one man in the chest and toppling him, his jaws closing around the man's head before he hit the ground. Dredd felt his lips twitch involuntarily at the sight. A scream became a strangled gurgle, and then there was only one guard left. Lance raised defiantly, he backed away towards the door, no doubt to get help – but very suddenly his arms slackened and the lance clattered to the floor, and Little Hades's snapping jaws finished what Anderson had started. Settling down on the fallen body, the predator began to feed.

Anderson sighed. "Not now..." Again she closed her eyes, and Little Hades raised his head. There was an unidentifiable piece of meat dangling from his teeth. As he turned, his long tail, its end tufted with a bushel of feathers, brushed over the bars of the empty neighbouring cell. Crouching down over the bodies in front of his own cell, he began to paw at them as if searching them.

"That wasn't quite as you planned it," Dredd guessed, making no more effort to keep his voice down.

"No," Anderson confirmed. "I wanted to save the last one to let us out, like we planned it, but our friend got a bit overenthusiastic. With the rest either dead or out cold, we'll have to find another way."

Dredd shrugged. "More will come." It was surprising how quiet Tanner and the other two were, but maybe they were just too shocked at what was going on to speak. Or they were smart enough not to be a distraction. Either option suited him fine.

"They'll be better armed and prepared," Anderson cautioned. "I was thinking of something different." She gestured towards the approaching deinonychus. "This."

"You don't mean..." No, it seemed she did. From one of the dinosaur's claws dangled the key. Anderson held out her hand through the bars – there came a gasp from the cell on their left, and even Dredd caught himself holding his breath – and Little Hades dropped the key into it as if this were the most natural thing in the world to him. Snaking her hand down over the lock, she inserted the key into it. For a little while she struggled with it, then there came a click and she pushed the cell door open. When she turned back to Dredd, she was wearing a distinctly smug expression. "Let's pick up some weapons and go upstairs, shall we?"

Ignoring the freed prisoners, Little Hades went back to feeding. Dredd preferred not to watch him too closely.

* * *

They were not exactly trapped, but if they continued downward, they might be soon. Andrin did not like the situation at all. They had escaped from the main holding tract, leaving behind general chaos, but the alarm had been sounded – Kratky's body must have been found by now; Thiago might have dragged the guard he had had to shoot in the corridor outside the office into a cupboard, but he had said that there had been treacherous bloodstains, somebody was bound to have seen them soon after – and a whole new contingent of armed arena employees seemed to be after them now. A precious few fellow prisoners had attached themselves to their group; they had freed twenty-six, he had counted them himself, and only five had come with them, and of those five two were dead, one had snuck off and might be dead or recaptured as well by now, and the remaining two were wounded. So was Patton; the engineer was limping and carrying his left arm in a makeshift sling. Moreover, the lasgun was useless by now, he had already depleted the remaining power cells, and recharging them took some time.

Gunshots rang out from around the corner they had just turned, screams and curses resounded in the shadowy grey corridors. Another group of prisoners down, then. Some, like those two men with them, seemed to possess some combat skills – the skinny one called Tony was quite handy with an assault rifle they had taken from a dead guard – but most had merely been scheduled for execution and were useless, except for creating a hold-up and keeping Kratky's men busy. They had probably freed a lot of criminals, Andrin was aware of that, but for now he had more important things to worry about. Dredd could deal with that question, once they found him.

Who was in charge, now Kratky was dead? The question randomly flitted across his mind, but he dismissed it again as unimportant.

The other prisoner who had accompanied them, a short, tattooed, not exactly trust-worthy-looking man in his fifties named Daniel, was holding a knife to the captured guard overseer's throat while Patton pointed a large-calibre pistol at him. "Once again, where do you keep that stuff?" the man with the knife demanded. "I _know_ it's here somewhere. I used to work here, remember?"

The guard sneered. "Until you were caught stealing, you mean?" Just like Daniel, he spoke in a thick, slurred accent that probably was the local one.

The convict jabbed the blade against his neck, producing a thin trickle of blood. "Where is it?" he snarled.

Andrin suppressed a sigh and went past Spikes, who had nothing better to do than re-style his hair in front of the little mirror – this room seemed to be something like the lower-level guards' common room, with various commodities, including a bathroom and a large sofa –, to join Thiago and Tony at the door. He hoped they would find their superior officers' equipment soon, but he doubted it was kept down here. Judges' gear must have been a prized trophy to Kratky. "You're sure there was nothing in his office?" he asked his twin.

"Positive," Thiago confirmed. "I would have found it otherwise. I guess," he added, modifying his statement.

Andrin shrugged. There was little they could do about it now, what with the levels above them swarming with guards. "We should be out of here."

"Max sec's this way, I think," Tony provided, pointing at the right fork in the corridor ahead. "Never been there, but saw 'em leadin' Lil' Hades past once, and he came from a diff'rent direction. Must be that, I think."

"Daniel should know," Thiago pointed out, and Andrin agreed. There still remained the question whether Dredd and Anderson were in this other holding facility at all, or were being held somewhere else, like Thiago and Spikes had been. Kratky might well have had a special interest in them, just like he had had a special interest in him and his twin, and possibly in Spikes, it had seemed, though they would never find out why now.

Who was this Little Hades? From the way those who had mentioned him until now spoke about him, he did not precisely sound human.

It seemed the others were making some progress; by now Patton had opened a cupboard, pushed a hatch in its back wall open and was waiting for Daniel to make the captive overseer reveal the code to the safe hidden behind it. Peering out into the corridor, Andrin hoped they would hurry up. Was he being paranoid, or was there someone coming closer? The guns were silent by now, the screams had died down, which could only mean...

"Got it!" Patton's voice came from the back of the room, and for once he actually sounded excited. "Looks like it's all there."

Andrin brushed his fingers over Thiago's arm as he turned and rushed back into the room, wordlessly telling him to stay where he was. Indeed, there it was, the equipment taken from Dredd and Anderson, two bags neatly packed. Patton had snatched up one already and was checking its contents, so Andrin snatched the other one before someone else could. Patton might have a lot more experience in the line of duty, but he belonged to Tek Division, whereas Andrin would be a Judge one day. His check wasn't quite as thorough as the engineer's, just thorough enough to verify whose equipment it was; instead Andrin drew out the Lawgiver and grasped it firmly. The tiny control light flashed green as the weapon identified him as the correct owner. His clone brother's weapon. It might as well be his own.

"Whoa, careful with that!" Patton cautioned, but Andrin ignored him. He had a Lawgiver now. He was a Judge, until Dredd took it from him. Jamming Dredd's helmet onto his head, he was thrilled to see the display light up before his eyes straight away. The helmet was slightly too large, but what did it matter? He had a Lawgiver, and he was a Judge.

Striding across the room, he rejoined his brother, just as Thiago raised his pistol to open fire at the enemies approaching the corner ahead. The shadows were less deep seen through the helmet's display. Clearing his throat, he commanded, "Incendiary!", making his voice as deep as he could. The weapon clicked, and Andrin's heart soared. "Stay down," he told Tony, who had been about to take up position in the corridor with his rifle. "I'll handle this." Patton was still protesting, but what did it matter? He held the Lawgiver, and that put him in charge. When a group of men stormed around the corner, he pulled the trigger.

As the projectile hissed through the air to explode into a burning cloud, Andrin realised his mistake, but if not for Thiago and Patton pulling him away in time, it might well have been too late. The helmet had protected him from most of the heat, but the lower half of his face felt as if it might be blistering. "Damn it, boy!" Patton bellowed. Andrin could not recall ever having heard him truly angry either; he was quite emotional today, for his normal quiet standard. "Not in enclosed spaces! _Never _in enclosed spaces! There's a phosphorous charge in there! You're lucky you were wearing that helmet, you could have injured your eyes! Give that here!" Bending down, he snatched the Lawgiver from Andrin's unresisting hand and, limping across the room, firmly shoved it back into the bag holding Dredd's equipment, muttering to himself all the while.

There was no sensation of shock coming from Thiago, so his face was alright, most likely. Gingerly he touched his skin with his fingertips. Yes, it seemed he was unhurt. Embarrassed, he sat up and took off the helmet. He was no Judge, he was an idiot.

From outside acrid smoke drifted in, carrying what must be the stench of burning flesh. Peering out carefully, Tony coughed and pulled the collar of his shirt up over the lower half of his face. "You got 'em good," he stated, muffled by the fabric and barely audible over the screams resounding in the corridor. Why had Andrin not noticed the screams straight away? They were horrible, they went on and on and on...

"Let's get outta here," Daniel suggested. "If we're lucky, there won't be another group coming after us so quickly. There's a storeroom before max sec if we need to bar... barra... whatever, if we need to hide somewhere and keep them out."

"Barricade us in," Thiago provided helpfully, but the former guard just shot him a dirty look. His accent was a lot less thick than Tony's; perhaps he wasn't a local originally, Andrin assumed. Maybe one of those criminals wanted in one of the big cities who had found a new home in the Cursed Earth? Dredd had mentioned the phenomenon that criminals would flock into the larger settlements, enjoying the relative anonymity they offered while being too far away from civilisation for the mega-cities' Justice Departments to persecute them further. It most likely was for the best that Spikes picked up the bundles with the Judges' equipment before Daniel could; the punk wasn't much good in a fight anyway, and it was a miracle he had not taken one single scratch until now.

Why was he considering people's accents at all? Probably because he did not want to listen to the screams. Andrin accepted Thiago's offered hand and allowed his brother to help him back to his feet, something he would not have accepted from anybody else in this room. _He'll be angry with me if he finds out what I did_, he shared his greatest worry currently.

Of course Thiago knew who he was referring to. He always knew. _I won't tell him_, he promised.

_Bet he'll check his ammo, and then he'll know_, Andrin pointed out.

_We'll come up with something. _But Andrin could sense that his twin had doubts about that. Quite possibly Thiago would end up trying to take the blame, and Andrin simply could not allow that. It probably was for the best if he walked up to Dredd straight away and confessed that his rash and thoughtless action had almost gotten him and others hurt. He knew better than to use an incendiary charge in a confined space, and Dredd was bound to know that he knew.

"Someone ahead!" Tony reported, and Andrin rushed to his side, the helmet still under his arm. He had something to make up for. It was true, there were shouts and screams from the other side now, mingling with the screams slowly dying down – Andrin refused to look more closely at the burned-up shapes he could see from the corner of his eye, but some were smouldering still, and some even seemed to be moving feebly... No, don't look! Concentrate on the things ahead! The smoke and stench were sickening; Tony looked about to vomit, and even Patton, who had come up from behind, looked a little paler than usual.

"We'll be trapped in here, and that door won't hold," the engineer decided. "We move out, and if necessary we can retreat for now, until reinforcements arrive."

"What about him?" Daniel asked, nodding at the overseer lying on the floor.

In theory, Andrin's answer would have been "kill him", but despite all the dead he had seen already, somehow he could not stomach it right now. "We could lock him in the cupboard," he suggested instead.

"Just leave him," Patton ordered. "He can't do us much harm." He had taken over the command, and everybody seemed to accept it. It gave Andrin a bitter feeling.

Daniel started to protest, but just then a guard ran past the open door screaming from the direction they were about to head, and after him chased... for lack of a better term, an animal, not particularly large, but with a long tail held backwards stiffly, its slender body covered in feathers of red and yellow. The screams continued briefly, then were cut off abruptly.

"Oh, shit!" Tony cursed. "Lil' Hades! He's free!"

His pistol clutched tightly, Thiago strode back to the door – a brave display, but Andrin could feel his fear. Out of solidarity he joined his twin with his stun baton, though that might not be of much use. If only he had not acted like a complete idiot, he might have had Dredd's Lawgiver still. He might even have had a chance to be in charge of this lot, then.

Just then one of the most marvellous sights he could possibly imagine right now appeared around the corner ahead: Anderson, still barefoot and clad only in her colourful shorts and a black bra that probably was standard issue; to his dismay, Andrin did not get to see nearly enough bras, let alone girls wearing them with nothing else over them. "Found them!" she called back over her shoulder before she rushed to them. Thiago simply dropped his pistol to the floor and practically leapt into her embrace, laughing with glee, and Andrin hesitated only briefly before following suit, letting go of stun baton and Dredd's helmet. For once they could afford to act like babies. Just this once.

When Dredd turned up, they quickly disentangled themselves and straightened up. To be honest, Andrin could have hugged him too, but Dredd most likely detested the very idea of hugs. He might be wearing a downright silly pair of shorts – yes, that really was a glittery diamond right across his crotch, they had not been sure if they had seen it correctly on the screen in the room they had been left waiting in, until they had been transferred to where they had been kept for the rest of the time – but Andrin still did not want to do anything that might cause a scowl. For once Dredd was even wearing a small smile, though he did not waste any time on words of greeting. "Anyone hurt?" he inquired curtly.

"Me, sir." Patton had appeared in the doorway behind them. "And those two with us. Spikes and the cadets are fine."

"We also found your stuff, Judgey," Spikes provided. "Don't fall over yourself trying to thank us. Kissing my feet will do."

Skipping over the burnt bodies lightly, the animal called Little Hades re-emerged from the whitish smoke clouding part of the corridor. Andrin jumped and scrambled for his discarded weapon, as did Thiago, and there came a loud yelp from behind them, probably from Tony, but maybe from Patton. The famed monster had only just gone past, why had they so completely forgotten his proximity? But Anderson held out a hand, and Little Hades trotted to her side and nuzzled her arm with his blood-stained snout. Smiling, Anderson scratched him under the chin, which made him gurgle softly, probably his equivalent of the purr of Doctor Judd's cats the twins had grown up with. "Don't worry," Anderson said, completely at ease, "he won't harm you. He was a prisoner too."

"In here." From behind Dredd three men had turned up, two of them supporting a dark-skinned one in the middle. Dredd assisted in bringing him into the common room, where both Tony and Daniel promptly greeted the group; they seemed to know at least part of them well. "There's bandages and stuff in the cupboard," a muscular, curly-haired man said, but Daniel had already gone for it. Together they laid out the dark-skinned man on the sofa and started nursing the wounds in his side and thigh.

"So," Dredd announced, standing in the middle of the room as if he owned it and surveying his surroundings, "where are my things?" But when Spikes handed him his bag, he thanked the punk nicely enough. Losing no time, he pulled off his outrageous shorts straight away. Coming after him, Anderson followed suit, and Andrin tried not to peek too openly.

If only Dredd would not check his Lawgiver...

Little Hades came in last, moving lightly, sniffing the air. His head, its back crowned by a pretty crest of red and green feathers, was on about the height of Andrin's shoulder, but his tail, extended backwards stiffly, gave him an impressive overall length, certainly longer than Dredd was tall, probably by quite a bit. He walked on two legs; one of his toes on each foot was raised off the ground and sported a curved claw at least the size of Andrin's hand. His arms were loosely held at his side, his lightly curled hands having three long, slim, clawed fingers each. Feathers covered a good part of his otherwise lizard-like body, larger ones along the middle of his back and hanging from his arms as if forming a pair of mock wings, smaller ones covering his sides, down to his relatively thinly feathered belly and legs. The tail's feathers were not very large and thick either, except for a bushy cluster of them at the end of it. His underside was yellow mostly, his back red with thin stripes and patterns of black travelling along his sides, and the green colour from his head crest was repeated in small flecks in the little feather ridge along the middle of his back. His face was left featherless, coloured yellowish-beige with black marks on the forehead, down to his curiously twitching nostrils. His snout was a little open, revealing a set of teeth too long and sharp for comfort. While Dredd and Anderson got dressed again, he explored the room, sniffing objects, sometimes flicking his long, narrow pink tongue against them, sometimes touching them with his clawed fingers. He was a fascinating creature, whatever he was; Andrin realised he had completely been distracted from Anderson standing there in plain view in her underwear. He did another full circuit of the room, forcing Patton to dodge the tail, then lifted a leg and sprayed two quick spurts of urine against the doorjamb.

Currently in the course of putting his protective gear back on, Dredd rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me I have to piss on the wall again now! I thought we were done with establishing the hierarchy. Don't ask," he sharply added in Spikes's direction.

Anderson openly grinned at him. "No, he's accepted you as the alpha male by now. Didn't you notice how he waited for you to mark your territory first? When you didn't, he decided that someone in the pack had to."

"I can live with that." Dredd bent to retrieve his helmet from the floor; if he was wondering how it had gotten there, he gave no sign of it. Everything's back to normal, Andrin thought, he's wearing his helmet again. "Patton, report."

While Patton quickly summarised all the events he knew of, Andrin picked up a strip of unused bandage, moistened it and proceeded to clean Kratky's remaining blood off his twin's face. Dredd should have asked him or Thiago about what had happened, but Andrin did his best to quench his disappointment. He had to take care of his brother now, it was more important. One day he would be a Judge, they both would be, but not yet. _You feeling okay?_, he asked Thiago.

_Pretty much. Wouldn't hurt to be back out in the desert, though. I'd feel safer._

Despite himself, Andrin had to smile. _Yeah, I guess._ His gaze flickered over to Anderson. Was she listening? _Quite a sight, eh?_

Thiago got his meaning and nodded, grinning hugely. _That was a treat. Wouldn't mind more of it._

Andrin once again peered at Anderson cautiously, but she seemed busy buckling on her belt. _Careful, she's got a pet now. With big teeth._

They didn't notice Dredd coming up behind them until he stood right in front of them. Looking down at them from behind his dark visor, he was every bit the stern-faced Judge out of the textbook. "One of you fired an incendiary." It wasn't a question.

"Me, sir," Andrin confessed before Thiago could take the blame. "There were lots of enemies, and I..." Making excuses would do him no good. "It was the wrong reaction. I take full responsibility."

For endless-seeming seconds Dredd merely looked at him. Andrin forced himself to hold his gaze, although he would rather have stared at his feet with feigned interest. Finally Dredd said, "Your choice is understandable, under the circumstances. But the next time you need to borrow my Lawgiver, only use ammo you've been trained to use."

"Yes, sir." The tension seeped out of Andrin, replaced by bubbling relief that mingled with Thiago's. They still were in the bowels of the arena, with who knew how many enemies between them and freedom, but somehow... all was well.

* * *

As evening came, they were back on the road, their storage compartments full of food, water bottles and medical supplies, and several additional tanks of fuel in the Killdozer's cargo hold. The mayor of Repentance had been ashamed enough of what the town's most successful businessman had done to them to promptly provide anything they asked for and more. Anderson now had a fat pillow and a marvellously soft blanket to add to her sleeping arrangements. But most importantly, they had left Repentance behind, leaving the government officials to deal with the mess they had left the arena in. When they had passed the church, the bells had been ringing, and the sound had given her chills.

They all were tired, so Dredd ordered a stop for the night not even a mile away from the town. Exhausted from the events of the day as well as numb from all the painkillers he had been given, Patton went to bed straight away, but Spikes and the twins retreated to their crammed bunks soon as well, not even kept awake by the feathered attraction building a cosy nest in their cargo hold.

Looking down from her sleeping place behind the consoles and engine panel, Anderson observed the dinosaur below. Little Hades did not like the close confines of his new quarters, he kept banging his tail against cargo or wall whenever he turned, but he was glad enough to have escaped captivity and wanted to leave Repentance as far behind as he could.

"How far are we taking him?" Dredd asked, coming up beside her, still in full uniform and helmet. Seeing him like that, Anderson felt as if everything that had occurred at Repentance had been nothing but a bad dream.

"As far as he wants to go," Anderson suggested. "We owe him that much."

Dredd nodded. "Suppose so. I don't know if we'll find a good place for him, though. According to Spikes, his kind lived in woodlands and swamps. He can even climb trees with those big claws on his feet."

"I don't know if he's ever seen a tree before," Anderson said sadly.

After a moment's silence, Dredd suggested, "We might count this as the cadets' Hotdog Run. Most don't get one as rough as what they got today."

Was he actually asking her opinion? "Can I propose it to Principal Griffin when we get back? I think they've earned it."

"I'd have to," Dredd pointed out. "You're in charge of them, but you're no Senior Judge yet."

Of course, the so-called Hotdog Runs were led by a Senior Judge, maybe even two; Anderson wasn't sure what rank the accompanying officer normally held. Her own had been pretty harmless, compared to what the twins had faced this day, just a lengthy excursion to one of the larger settlements not far from the boundary walls; they had spent two days carrying out raids and tracking drug couriers and organ-leggers, with hardly a real combat situation during the whole time. Of twelve cadets altogether, ten had passed, including herself. "Will you?"

"I'll decide once we're back, but I think so." Leaning on the rail with his forearms, he looked down at the dinosaur. Little Hades was busy arranging his blankets the way he wanted them and paid his human companions no heed at the moment. "You're sure Andrin was the one in the blue shorts and striped T-shirt?"

"Positive," Anderson confirmed.

"If you wouldn't say so, I'd have sworn he was Thiago. And he wasn't just taking the fall for his brother?"

"No, he wasn't." Anderson moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue; perhaps it was time to share an observation of hers. It wasn't betraying them when she told their own brother, was it? "Andrin strikes me as... pushy, you might say. He lets Thiago take the lead, but sometimes, when it's important, then he'll push forward. I don't know if I can put it like that, if that's even correct, but I think Thiago is more eloquent, a little smarter maybe, but Andrin is... braver. More reckless, certainly."

She looked at Dredd sideways, but his face showed little reaction, and he radiated nothing. Still true to her pledge, she did not reach out to him. Her reluctance to use her powers altogether had caused them a lot of trouble that might have been avoided, she would not make that mistake again, but this did not mean that she had to break her promise and read Dredd's mind.

"This complicates things," he stated after a moment's thought.

"I realise that." She had never been closely acquainted with the handful of clones she had met at the Academy, but maybe clones of the same person could develop slightly different personalities and character traits? Even when scientists tried to closely model them on other clones of the same bloodline? According to Hershey, Thiago was an exact copy of Rico, except for size and psychic powers, but somehow she was starting to feel it was Andrin who needed closer watching. Could Hershey have been wrong?

Down below, Little Hades was finally settling down to rest, lying down on his side, with his tail hanging out over the blankets. Smiling down at him as she felt his mind ease up and slowly start gliding over into slumber, Anderson remembered a question she had meant to ask earlier on. "Do you have any idea what his name means? Hades?"

"An old god, as far as I know," Dredd replied. "The god of death and darkness."

The Coming Dark. Anderson did her best to banish the thought, but it kept returning. It was just a name given to a dangerous animal to make him sound intimidating, but all the same, some small, superstitious part of her believed that this was no coincidence. The darkness was haunting her, wherever she went. The darkness was following her.

When they went to sleep soon afterwards, she dreamed of a cloud of blackness centring on her, swallowing her whole. She woke drenched in sweat and breathing heavily and could not go back to sleep for some time, not even when she moved over to Dredd and rested her head against his shoulder.

* * *

_Intending to sneak off without reviewing, were you? That's two weeks in the cubes, creep! Especially if you are following this without ever dropping a line. The Hall of Justice knows who you are..._  
_(Holds true for other stories, too. Why am I the only reviewer on some of them? There are some real talents among the writers in this section, and most of those talents don't get the attention they deserve. If you had a good time reading their stuff, I'm sure you can spare a minute to just tell them you did. I know from my own experience how depressing it is to see in your traffic stats that hundreds of people have been enjoying your hard work in the first 24 hours already, and only one or two bothered to tell you so... whereas just a few words of praise or constructive criticism can make a writer's day. Myself, I review every single fic I read, even the plain horrible ones. Behind every story is a kid or adult who put a lot of time and passion into it, and that alone deserves some reaction. Those guys and girls will be grateful.)_


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